


Resurrecting

by Paraxdisepink



Series: My personal canon - I need to believe, ok? [1]
Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: First Time, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prisoner of War, Psychological Trauma, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraxdisepink/pseuds/Paraxdisepink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of three stories set during their time in the Spanish prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confession

**Author's Note:**

> “To eat is to believe in him, to drink is to draw near to him.”

The cell around him was narrow and dark, a fine place to die. He fell   
facedown on the cold floor, choking on the stench of his own unwashed   
flesh, unable to move. The weakness in his body was almost like the   
euphoria before a fit, or the ache of being folded in half.

If he could have risen, he would have run – crawled even – but it was no use; hands found him, yanking off his soiled clothes, and then a bucketful of freezing water sloshed over his skin. He bit hard into his lip. He did not want to be here; he wanted to go back in the pit. 

His captors stripped off everything, and the awareness of his nakedness pricked like needles, raising gooseflesh, coiling his insides. Voices spoke above him. He translated every few phrases, “troublemaker,” and “strong thighs for running” – a rough touch followed those words. If his stomach had been full he would have heaved his guts out there and then. 

The ground vibrated with the echo of retreating boots – one, two pairs, were they really so loud? – but he was not alone yet. A strong arm latched across his middle, hauling him up against rough wool and chilly buttons that scraped his naked skin. He froze, every muscle quivering, and then found himself lying on something softer, sprawled on his side. 

Hands again. They gripped the backs of his thighs, trying to wrest his legs apart. No. He tried to kick but his legs would not work; his body only swayed weakly. Laughter filled his ears, and then a fierce slap cracked across his backside. 

_“No se mueva!”_

Stinging heat blossomed where the blow had landed, spreading through every inch of him, twisting his gut. Somehow, he was thrashing, fighting to turn over. One of the guards seized a fistful of his hair; another held him down with a hand at the small of his back. He shook from head to foot. They leaned closer. There was nothing he could do to stop them . . . . 

Archie’s eyes flew open. 

He expected to find himself in that cell. That was where the guards had left him, curled on his bunk and hurting, and he had stayed that way shutting out the world until Horatio had come back to haunt him. At first, Archie had been certain he was hallucinating – Horatio’s face had plagued him so often, like the Furies to Orestes, that he had begun to think he had got them all killed in the _Papillion_ raid and was being punished with madness – but then he had heard Horatio’s voice, softly praying for a way out. No, not praying, asking. Asking him. It was as good as a prayer; there was no escape. But that had been more than a fortnight ago, and he was still hurting. 

This room was comparatively bright, alight with candles and a fire. Archie had woken here last night and it had been raining. The rain had stopped and it was night again, the fire high and warm, but the chair beside his bed was empty. 

Horatio had sat there before Archie had fallen asleep, explaining that tonight he must dine with Massaredo and his guest. The oatmeal Horatio had coaxed into him afterward still sat heavy in his stomach, but only after staring at the empty chair for another few moments did Archie realize that was due to worry. This morning he had told Horatio the truth about his lady friend, and Horatio had not listened. 

You’re raving. 

The feverish memory of the previous night flitted back. He saw two faces in the firelight, Horatio’s, hers. Each seemed to represent a portion of his life; Horatio’s the terror aboard ship, his own body under siege, and hers the magic of the theatre, and home. He hasn’t been eating; he starved himself to death, Horatio had cried, frantic. Somehow, that had driven her away, and then a nightmare had come. 

_I won’t survive if you don’t help me._

Archie bit his lip, remembering the spell Horatio’s pleading dark eyes had cast on him after he woke, and the cup Horatio had pushed into his hands to seal his fate. He was condemned to live now, that was why he was here. 

Perhaps living would not be so bad. The Navy would not want a man who had fits; perhaps the Admiralty would discharge him and send him home. Father had apparently never expected much of him anyway and would find something else for him to do. Or perhaps, if the Navy kept him, he would eventually be transferred, and no one would care if he put a pistol in his mouth. He had only to hold together while Horatio was near. 

The door opened, and Archie was not surprised when Horatio entered, flustered and frowning. The sight of him sobered Archie a little. He studied Horatio’s expression for a long moment, wanting to ask what was wrong. But before he could, a handful of Massaredo’s guards came filing into the room. 

Archie shut his eyes. He would rather lie there stewing in his own shame and cowardice than look at any of the Don’s men, unable to forget the day they had dragged him from the pit. His skin crawled all over again and his ears filled with their laughter until he felt sick inside. Why did Horatio let them in here? Did he not understand? No, Horatio understood precious little; after all, he had saved Simpson from the sea. 

Whatever they were doing, they made long work of it. They were carrying something, Archie knew that much – something heavy – without a word. It was not until the door clicked shut that anyone spoke, or that he breathed easily again. 

“Archie . . .” A hand found his shoulder, shaking him as though he really had been asleep. “Archie, wake up. We have to bathe you now.” 

We? The word irritated him. Where was this “we” when it came time for walks with Miss Cobham or dinner with the Don? Archie opened his eyes, staring up at Horatio standing over the bed. He looked both impatient and unusually tall, and that irritated Archie, too. 

“Well, come on.” Horatio glanced to the porcelain tub set before the fire. “We can’t let it get cold. Let’s get these filthy things off you, eh, Archie?” 

Horatio peeled the blankets back and reached to unbutton his breeches. Archie rolled away from him, as far as he could. “No.” The guards . . . . He squeezed his eyes shut. He had not washed since then and would rather die than let anyone see what they had done to him. 

“Archie . . .” Horatio was no doubt losing patience, tired of him already. His duty was to lead men, not tame wounded animals. “Mr. Kennedy, you have to bathe. Now will you look at me?” 

It was easy to look, but painful to be seen. Archie sat up, swaying. His head spun; he barely had the strength to hold himself upright. Horatio caught him with an arm around his shoulders. Archie stiffened, trying not to lean too close, remembering how Horatio had carried him last night. His cheeks burned, ashamed of that too. Why did Horatio have to be here? 

“Easy now, Archie,” his friend was saying. “You’ll feel better after a good hot scrubbing. Now keep still.” Horatio’s hands moved to his waist, gripping his shirt to tug it free. 

_No se mueva_

Archie twisted, seizing Horatio’s wrist with what little strength he had, cold all over. “No.” He shook his head. He could not let Horatio see. Horatio had seen too much of his shame already. 

“Archie, can’t you say anything else?” Horatio had him by the shoulders now and was turning him around. “Archie . . .” A hand cupped his cheek when he could not bring himself to look up. He flinched when he was forced to look into Horatio’s face. Those eyes were large and pleading again, ignorant of what was wrong. “For God’s sake, Archie, you’ve nothing to fear from the water. Don’t tell me I have to order you to undress.” 

Horatio was only teasing, Archie knew that, but for a moment he hated him and wished he had the strength to fight. The thought of anyone commanding his body made him sick. 

But he was filthy, and he hated the layer of dirt itching his skin. The heat of the bath would make him feel clean again – as clean as he could be, in a prison. Archie wet his lips. “I can manage for myself, Horatio.” He tried to say it calmly, reasonably. Horatio always bowed to reason. 

Taking his hand away, Horatio frowned at him. “Is that it? You can scarcely –“ 

“I can manage,” Archie repeated, sick to death of what he could not do. 

Horatio sighed, seeming to take his discomfort for modesty. “Very well, Archie. I’ll . . . wait outside.” 

Archie did not move until Horatio was gone – even then he wished he could latch the door shut. He lay back – it was easier that way – stretching his legs out and tugging off the first stocking and then the other. The room was not cold, but he felt chilled; the idea of being naked made him feel vulnerable and sick. Nothing for it, he had to if he wanted to be clean, and Horatio was outside. His breeches were more difficult than the stockings; his fingers lacked the strength to grasp the buttons. Archie gritted his teeth, somehow managing to wriggle out of them halfway and then kick them off with his feet. 

His legs were completely bare now, but he did not want to look there. Now the shirt; his arms were not strong enough to lift it over his head, so he pushed it over his shoulders, down to his waist. Once he got up it would slide away. But how was he going to get up? 

After a moment, Archie flung his legs over the side of the bed, letting his feet gain the floor while he pushed himself up with one hand on the mattress. It did not work; the shirt slipped and tangled in his feet, and the muscles of his legs were too sore and weak to keep his balance. He slumped to his knees, kicking away the linen. His heart raced and sweat slicked his skin, too exhausted to try and stand again. 

But the tub waited only a few feet away, and he did want to be clean. No one was there to see him and it was not as though he had a shred of dignity left anyway. Licking his dry lips, Archie slid along, holding the bed for as long as he could until he had to let go and cross the dirty floor on hands and knees. A lump rose in his throat and his eyes stung. God, he was crawling like an infant. Horatio should have let him die. 

When he got close enough, Archie stared at the water, wondering how he would get in. He settled for bracing his palm on the tub’s bottom and swinging one leg and then the other over the side until he was on all fours inside the tub. The slippery porcelain made it easy to turn, and all at once he slid onto his back, his senses screaming as he sank chin-deep into the burning water. 

The room spun when he tried to focus. The candle flames smeared and reeled; blackness ringed his vision around the edges. God, his head pounded and the hot water seemed to melt his flesh. His only thought was that he wanted to be clean. Archie’s hand faltered urgently downward, but where he was desperate to scrub away semen and blood he found nothing. His mind went blank, bewildered. What had the guards done to him, then, undressing him and laughing? 

His vision narrowed, a black tunnel all around. His ears rang. Archie gripped the sides of the tub until his arms burned, afraid he would lose consciousness and drown. He had nothing to hide from his friend after all, he remembered dimly, and forced himself to call out. 

“Horatio . . .” 

The door flew open. Horatio rushed in, his mouth moving though Archie could not understand what came out, as though he were too far away to hear. Horatio stripped off his jacket and waistcoat and threw them on the bed, and then dropped to his knees beside him. Archie let go of the tub, his fingers numb, slumping against Horatio’s shoulder. A black curtain fell over his eyes and he could see nothing at all. 

The next thing he heard was Horatio scolding him. 

“No more stubbornness!” His friend clutched him frightfully in a strong arm. Archie closed his eyes. The shame was bad enough. Why did Horatio have to make it worse? He had a right to bathe alone if he wanted. 

“No,” he answered when the dizziness passed, cold where he had been sweltering before. 

Drawing back, Horatio slid a hand under his chin, forcing Archie to look at him again. “Archie, for God’s sake, will you say something else besides ‘no’?” 

Stern dark eyes pierced him. Archie swallowed hard under their scrutiny, looking down at his own pale, naked form in the water. He was exhausted and filthy, ill with the grating truth that he even needed Horatio’s help to bathe. It was hard not to hate Horatio for it, though he was not to blame. 

“I’m tired of being useless,” Archie nearly sobbed, that lump tightening his throat again. 

“Archie, you’re not useless.” Horatio said it as if for the hundredth time. No doubt he had said it a hundred times, to his men. They were all sick to death of sitting idle while their commander doted on a weakling half-mad invalid, and rightly so. Horatio could have had them halfway to Gibraltar by now, if not for him. “You’re sick,” he went on more firmly. “You’re sick because you’re tired of being a prisoner and because you haven’t been eating. Only the latter is your fault.” 

“No, it’s not,” Archie protested automatically. It was Simpson’s and Pellew’s and Eccleston’s. Eccleston’s and Pellew’s especially; neither did a thing about Simpson. 

“You’re right.” Horatio frowned. “It’s mine. Now don’t move.” 

He rose and brought back the pitcher by the bed, soaking the washrag in the cooler water and wiping away the sweat from Archie’s face. The throbbing in his skull lessened, and the cold water seemed to clear his head, but not until Horatio applied a small amount of soap and scrubbed the grime from his cheeks and forehead did Archie feel any real relief. Instead of itching under a coat of dirt, he felt the sting of cool air on his skin at last. For a moment Archie almost forgot he was naked. 

“There.” Horatio put the cloth down and dropped a cake of soap into the water. “You mustn’t overtire yourself, Archie.” He took up another cake and gently eased Archie forward until his chin rested on his knees. Chewing his lip, Archie braced himself, and then felt foolish when Horatio’s hands, foamy with soap, started gently down his back. They worked over the sore muscle, lathering the skin; Archie did not know why he had expected that to hurt. It felt good, so good that he groaned a little. But how could Horatio bear to touch him? He was still so filthy. 

Horatio’s hands suddenly stopped their work, and Archie grew aware of Horatio’s gaze burning into his flesh until he felt exposed and ashamed once more. “What happened here, Archie?” A fingertip slipped down, circling a spot on his ribs. 

Archie frowned. “They shot at me when last I tried to escape.” The bullet had only grazed the flesh, but the wound had burned like hell for days. 

“The Don’s men?” Surprise tinged Horatio’s words. Archie snorted, half expecting him to saunter off and report the injustice to Massaredo this instant. 

“Lucifer the Gentleman,” he sighed. 

Horatio said nothing to that. No doubt he could not abide hearing the Commandant slandered so. “And here, Archie?” He gently tapped a lash mark on the small of his back. Archie could not help but jump to be touched there, but he answered. 

“I attacked a Frog lieutenant and would have killed him if they’d let me.” 

The remorseless statement made Horatio uneasy; Archie could sense it, but uneasiness did nothing to lessen the intensity of his stare. “And here?” Horatio touched one shoulder blade this time. 

Archie lowered his head at the reminder of that one. “I disagreed with a particular gentleman’s plan that we should take a detour in the shrubbery. Now, please . . .” He shook his head before Horatio could ask any more questions. _Stop looking at me._

Seizing his shoulders, Horatio drew him upright against his chest. Archie froze when both arms came around him in a fierce embrace. He wanted to wriggle away; he could not stand being confined. But Horatio was warm, and Archie had forgotten what a warm body felt like. Instead of struggling to free himself, he leaned nearer. 

“Cold?” Horatio muttered against his hair. Archie did not realize how close he lay. He pulled back, but only to find Horatio’s eyes on him, so soft and intent they may as well have been in bed together. The ridiculousness of the thought should have made him laugh, but it did not. He could feel the heat of Horatio’s body where they were pressed breast-to-breast. A scarlet flush colored Horatio’s cheeks, his eyes bright. A fancier of other boys. But Horatio would never admit to it. 

“Where’s the Duchess?” Archie shifted when the contact became too much, breaking the spell. “You’re back early.” 

Horatio made a face, his forehead creasing. “Her Grace is entertaining a guest,” he said at length, mouthing the title with no small amount of disdain. So Horatio had at last accepted that she was no duchess? That was something at least. 

But Horatio did not seem to want to speak of Katherine Cobham. He cleared his throat and picked up the sponge again, supporting Archie with one arm around his back while he used the other to soap his shoulders and neck. Archie could help but lean his head back, holding his breath as the foaming sponge worked slowly over his throat. His breath came a little faster as it moved down his front, soaping the swells of his chest in broad circles and then sliding ticklishly across his ribs. He was almost shaking when Horatio scrubbed lower, lathering his stomach and his thighs, and then under him, between the curves of his arse. He did not like it, Archie wanted to scream; he did not want to be touched there. But he wanted to be clean. 

His body burned as though he had broken out in another fever. Archie could hear his own labored breathing and Horatio’s and the splashing of the water. Then he froze; Horatio released the sponge and plunged his bare hand between his legs, taking hold of his soft cock and sliding the foreskin back to wash there. Archie squeezed his eyes shut, tingling and feeling sick inside and wanting to cry all at once. Horatio’s touch was light and exquisitely gentle, but his body was too weak to respond to it. That shamed Archie, too. He doubted that he would ever respond to another’s touch again. 

“Archie, what’s the matter? We’re both men here.” Despite himself, Archie snorted; that was precious irony, a pity Horatio missed it. “Almost done,” Horatio muttered, and then wrapped an arm behind his shoulders. “Now lean your head back.” 

His neck ached to do so, but Archie did not mind; anything was better than the humiliation of a moment ago. Horatio filled the pitcher with hot water and used it to soak his hair until water streamed down his cheeks. Archie did not complain, not even when Horatio’s long fingers caught in the tangles as he worked his hair into a lather, adding more and more soap as he went. By the time Horatio emptied the pitcher over his head again, rinsing away the soap and filth, Archie found himself smiling. 

“I fear that’s the best we can do for now, Archie,” Horatio said as he took one towel and wring as much water from his hair as he could. “Up you go.” He snaked one arm under his knees and the other around his back. Archie scarcely had time to sling an arm around Horatio’s neck before he was scooped up with a heavy grunt. 

He may be half-starved, but he still weighed too much for his friend. Horatio shuffled backwards across the floor, landing on the bed with Archie sprawled naked across his lap. 

“Well that was hardly gallant,” Horatio muttered dryly, panting from the effort of lifting him. He gently rolled him off his lap and bent to retrieve another towel and the small pile of clean clothes the Don had provided. 

Lying on his back, Archie let Horatio dry him without a word, but he only really felt better after he had his breeches buttoned. Horatio paid no mind to his discomfort, peering at him intently again. He seized one of his feet without preamble. 

“What’s this, Archie?” The pad of one thumb skimmed from heel to toe; Archie quivered at the strange sensation. “The skin’s cracked.” 

Of course the bottoms of his feet were cracked. They had blistered and bled, too, all the way across France. “Too much walking,” Archie muttered, not wanting to think on it. He had done his poor feet no favors in the Don’s pit either, scraping them raw when he had thrown off his shoes and tried to climb out in the throes of madness. 

“They’ve left a salve. I’ll get it.” Horatio produced a jar from under the folded shirt. 

Archie tried to keep still as Horatio smoothed the ointment into the broken skin. It tickled and it burned, but most of all it felt wonderful, warming him all over. He smiled as Horatio found the sorest places, rubbing the most salve there with a no-nonsense look of concentration upon his face. For a moment their eyes met, compelling Archie to speak.. 

“Did she hurt you? – the Duchess, that is.” It was the first thing that came to mind, as odd as that was. 

Horatio stopped, taken aback. He never did like to expose his own heart. “I can’t say that I approve of her actions tonight, Archie, but the men think I am her lover.” He frowned as though this pained him, or confused him at best. “I can’t help but feel as though I should be. But, Archie, to be honest I’ve never been attracted to her or any woman, and can’t help but loathe that as a failure on my part.” 

So it was as he suspected. _A fancier of other boys._ That explained Horatio’s aloofness, the reason he was not comfortable around men or women. It seemed a rich joke that they should share these inclinations, but Archie did not dare laugh. He had found acceptance for his own deviance from his friends at the theatre, and knew Horatio needed the same. 

“Perhaps you haven’t met the right woman.” That was doubtful; Horatio had shown no interest in the girls during their few shore leaves. Those women had been prostitutes, of course, but not even the most honorable men were above looking. Still, offering Horatio small hope was the least he could do. “In any case, anyone would be silly to think less of you for it. No one should judge a man by the number of women he takes to his bed.” 

Horatio’s lips quirked up in a bashful smile, but Archie could still sense him pondering the matter. “Do you . . . want her, Archie?” He returned the delicate question in kind. 

Katherine Cobham? Archie frowned; that was a hard one. He thought her pretty, but . . .”I’ve had girls at the theatre, Horatio, and boys. Does that bother you?” It was best Horatio knew, lest he expend any more energy on a man who’s ways many would find repulsive. Not every man with a taste for his own kind chose to act on those urges, or even acknowledge them. Horatio’s uprightness might make him that sort of man. 

To his surprise, Horatio scarcely batted an eye. “If no one is brought to harm then I suppose it would be unfair to judge.” 

But Simpson? How would Horatio judge that? He was bound to learn the truth someday. Archie shook his head. Better not to think it. “I don’t want her, Horatio. She and I would have precious little in common now.” 

Sitting down on the bed, Horatio sighed, clearly uneasy with the conversation. “Let’s see those scars of yours, Archie. They seem slow to fade.” They would; after two years of exhaustion and illness, his body had little strength left for healing. None of that mattered now. For the moment Archie was content that Horatio would still want to touch him after learning of his unnatural dalliances. 

Rolling onto his stomach, Archie let Horatio sweep his damp hair aside, baring his back and shoulders. Horatio’s fingertips, cool with the salve, rubbed at one mark and then another, lingering as if to say, “this is my doing”. He had studied those marks so intently in the bath that Archie thought Horatio could map them out in the dark by now. It did not matter; Horatio’s touch was hypnotically gentle and could have lulled him had Horatio not chosen to speak. 

“There’s something else, Archie,” Horatio said as he idly worked the ointment into the last small mark. “I’ve failed my lieutenant’s examination.” 

Good God, that seemed impossible. Pellew must be riven. “How did you get here, then? I was certain Pellew had entrusted you with an important mission.” A captain was not wont to do so with a midshipman an examination board had found wanting – though, of course, such a mid would be preferable to one who had fits. Archie scowled. At least Horatio’s failure had not endangered anyone. 

“It’s a long story,” Horatio sighed. “Here.” He folded the blankets back and helped Archie under them. For a moment, Archie was certain Horatio would rather not elaborate on his failure, but after a pause Horatio went over to his chair and began to talk. 

Settling against the pillows, Archie listened as Horatio told his long story. He spoke of half-rations and a starving man, a plague ship and a fire ship, Algeciras and a deserter named Bunting. He told of actions on his part that he believed had contributed to these calamities, as though he had kept the guilt bottled up in his heart for a long time. Horatio had captured a ship, too, _la Reve,_ only to lose her in the fog, despite his efforts. Archie chuckled at the image of cunning Horatio surrounded by the Spanish fleet, disguised as a Frenchman. That image stayed in his mind as he drifted off to sleep. 

** 

Two nights later, Horatio sent him a portion of his dinner, including the brandy. 

“It’s a necessity, Archie,” Horatio had explained while Archie sat up in bed and made slow work of stabbing at the meat with the first proper fork he had used in years. “You must have solid food again if you’re to regain your strength.” 

Solid food might be necessary – he had eaten naught but cold soup since his capture – but the brandy was not. That was a gift and Archie accepted it as such, smiling as he drank it down. 

It burned like a flame in the pit of his stomach. His upper lip went numb, and his head promptly spun from the fiery rush. 

His head was still spinning now as they sat before the fire. Horatio leaned against the bed frame with his knees drawn up, and Archie sprawled between them, resting against Horatio while his friend combed the tangles from his damp hair. The Don had allowed him to bathe again, and after a second scrubbing the grime seemed sluiced from Archie’s skin for good. 

The ordeal was less agonizing this time; he had enough strength to do most of the work himself and only needed Horatio to scrub his back and wash his hair. The small triumph made Archie feel a little less like a babe at least. Afterward, Horatio had anointed the bottoms of his feet again, only this time he had noted the smile his gentle ministrations brought to Archie’s face and had resorted to tickling. 

“Stop that!” Archie had kicked him playfully, feeling a little stronger then, but Horatio had only laughed, seizing his foot to slide his stocking on. 

But despondency returned quickly enough, and now Archie felt like a babe again, slumped against Horatio with arms too weak to comb his own hair. It was hellishly matted, and the comb tugged painfully at his scalp despite Horatio’s best efforts to be gentle. 

“Damn it,” Archie complained, his eyes watering. 

Behind him, Horatio sighed. “I’m sorry.” He gathered the wet locks in one fist so that the comb would not pull so badly. All at once Archie felt like a spoiled little girl with her lady’s maid. He should not complain; Horatio worked as carefully as he could. “At least it’s clean now,” he said, setting the comb down and stretching out one long leg. Archie swayed with the small movement, unsteady from the brandy. 

“Archie . . .” Horatio sat up on his knees and reached to catch him. Archie flung a hand out to balance himself with one palm on the floor, but it was no good. It was Horatio’s arms that saved him from falling, wrapping loosely around his waist. Archie’s cheeks flared at his own clumsiness as he slumped the opposite way, his head landing on Horatio’s shoulder. Disgusted with himself, Archie stayed there, burying his face in the linen. 

“Tired of being useless,” he muttered. 

Minor panic seized him when Horatio’s arms tightened. He felt trapped, sprawled between Horatio’s knees, his upper body twisted toward him while he clutched Horatio’s arms for balance. Archie wanted to pull away, but he could not. 

“Archie . . .” A gentle hand smoothed his hair. The touch should not have felt strange, not after Horatio’s hands had been all over him these past days. Horatio should not be nervous either, but leaning as close as he was, Archie could feel his heart pounding. “Archie, you’re not useless. God knows these two years I’ve been as lonely as you.” 

The pain in Horatio’s voice made Archie look up. His eyes were dark and rich, pools of Spanish chocolate, as pleading now as they had ever been. Had Horatio always looked at him this way? Perhaps his own desperation not to be seen had prevented him from noticing. Archie recalled Horatio’s confession of two nights ago – that he had never fancied women. He recalled Horatio’s hands, gentle on his body as they had washed and tended him. Had his hands been pleading too? 

“Lonely for what?” Archie murmured. 

Horatio’s color rose, and when his eyes widened, Archie knew he had him. Perhaps all his talk of needing him to escape had been a lie, and all Horatio wanted from him was what he could not desire from Katherine Cobham. That should have angered him, made him feel used, but the isolation of the past years had been so devastating that Archie could not help but want the same. 

Still dizzy from the brandy, Archie’s fingers slid to the back of Horatio’s neck, pulling his head down until their lips met. 

It had been a long time since he had kissed anyone; Archie was surprised he still remembered how to do it, but he knew this felt good. Horatio’s mouth was warm silk against his own, soft as sin, quivering in surprise at the contact. Warm fingers found Archie’s cheek, and for a moment he feared Horatio would push him away, but Horatio did not. He only stroked the line of his jaw ever so lightly, hand atremble as his own had been when he had reached for that cup of water. Perhaps they were even now. 

Archie drew back to look at him. Horatio was so painfully beautiful. His eyes were wet, dark oceans for the firelight to dance upon, his lips red and ripe. In a rasping breath he chocked out, “Thought you were dead. Couldn’t bear it.” 

Well there it was, and from a man loath to expose his own heart. The raw emotion drove Archie toward him again. His arms slid around Horatio’s neck, and twining his fingers in those thick curls he met Horatio’s lips with more force. At last, Horatio got the idea. His lips parted, and he groaned softly as Archie sucked gently on the lower, exploring the lush, wet flesh with the tip of his tongue, tasting brandy on Horatio, too. Horatio’s hands moved slowly over his back all the while, clutching his shirt fitfully when he slid his tongue inside. 

When they pulled back for air, Horatio stared at him in star-struck bewilderment. “Archie, why are we . . .?” He sounded so innocent, so confused and young. 

“Poor Horatio,” Archie smiled. “Are the Articles all you know of the unspeakable vice of the Greeks?” 

Horatio’s mouth fell open in surprise, as though it had just donned on him that they were in the midst of a condemned act. It was also as Archie feared, then; Horatio had never interpreted his disinterest in women as preference for his own kind. But rather than uttering any words to stop him, Horatio only nodded and pushed him closer. 

Archie fastened his mouth to one side of Horatio’s neck this time, and not until he tasted the warm salt of Horatio’s skin did he realize how much he had longed to do this, to have a warm body against him after so long. With a groan, Horatio dipped his head back, letting Archie kiss across his throat. He bit gently, licking away the sting, one hand roaming over Horatio’s chest, eager to touch him. 

Horatio caught his wrist, his fingers trembling, gently prying his hand away. Surprised, Archie pulled back. Horatio’s cheeks burned and he would not meet his eyes. 

“Archie, please . . . let me . . .” 

He could not finish. He looked like he wanted to cry. All at once Horatio scrambled to his feet and rushed from the room. 

Panic set in when the door slammed shut. He had made a mess of everything and repulsed the one person who still cared for him. What had possessed him to kiss Horatio like that? Curse the brandy. He would never have done so with a clear head. 

Archie sank against the footboard where Horatio had been, hanging his head and letting his hands dangle between his knees. He felt sick again, but most of all he felt a fool. Horatio would never besmirch his precious honor fornicating with another man. _Fornicating,_ Archie scoffed at himself; they could hardly do that while he was limp between his legs. 

Hours seemed to pass before Horatio returned, but in truth it was likely no more than twenty minutes. His face was flushed and his expression grim. It grew even more so when he spied Archie sitting on the floor. Silence held, but true to his upright nature Horatio cleared his throat and attempted an apology. 

“Forgive me. I . . . you . . .” His hand flapped idly as he fished for words, but once again he did not finish. 

“I’ve angered you,” Archie finished for him. There was no use in hiding it. 

Horatio’s mouth tightened, the color in his cheeks deepening. “Of course not.” The words rang hollow for all their firmness. “You’ve simply served to demonstrate why I remain unattracted to the Duchess.” 

He was more accepting of that revelation then most men would be, Archie had to grant him that. Some men would take their own lives over it. Archie frowned at the thought. Perhaps he had been too bold. One kiss would have sufficed. 

“Forgive me for frightening you,” he said quietly. 

“Archie, “ Horatio chided with a shake his head. He even offered a gallant smile to prove he was not upset. Small good it did. But then he cleared his throat, apparently eager to the matter aside. “Come, I believe we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” 

He went to peel the blankets back while Archie grimaced at being sent to bed like a child, but had little other choice but to comply – sleeping was better than avoiding each other’s eyes for the remainder of the evening. He slid around the bed and accepted Horatio’s help under the covers, surprised when Horatio bent and pressed his lips to his forehead. Archie smiled then, the kiss warm and stinging. 

But Archie was not surprised when Horatio did not sleep in the little chair beside his bed that night. No doubt he would go to his cell and brood over what had happened here, compounding his guilt until it was a monstrous thing. For tonight, they remained friends at least, but whatever else they might become would have to wait. 


	2. Mercy

The silence hanging over the cell grated worse than that of the Don’s   
damned pit. True, that place had been grueling – rats and rain and walls of   
earth that pressed too close – but after three days of a warm bed and   
regular meals the memory lingered more like an ephemeral nightmare than a   
true harrowing hardship.

Horatio’s mouth tightened. That hole _had_ been harrowing for the man sharing his bunk. God only knew how one kept the will to live trapped down there with two years of torment for company. No, more than two years, Horatio recounted; it was Simpson’s hand that gripped Archie in his nightmares. 

With that black thought, Horatio turned his head, studying his friend with a frown. Archie lay curled away from him, where the candlelight better reached the pages of his book. The man was abstracted, his expression soft and blank. That empty look affirmed why it had been so easy to take the blame for Hunter’s insubordination. Horatio had both guessed the punishment and seen the chance it presented. 

Conscience demanded a man atone for his wrongs. A week in that hole might be the nearest he would come to doing so here, though pray God he would eventually find other ways – his punishment was only a small taste after all of the suffering Archie veiled with lowered eyes, and would never assuage the guilt in his heart. Still, some overture had to be made. To go on with no understanding of Archie’s pain would drive him madder than a hundred years in that place. 

Nonetheless, his admission to the Don had not been entirely false. He had failed in controlling his men, in commanding discipline, commanding trust. A poor leader, and a poorer friend, Horatio glanced over Archie’s still form. The Commandant had been too merciful, and to the wrong man. 

Folding his arms, Horatio let out a tired sigh. There was no telling the hour without the _Indie_ ’s bell; he only knew that if he could see their window from his corner it would reveal a late sky. Hunter had left them to their Spanish lesson, which Archie gave in the evenings now that the Don had granted them candles to study by; pray God he hastened his return so they might put out the light and try for sleep. If he could sleep. Horatio had spent enough nights with his mind scampering from thought to thought faster than a skilled hand through the rigging to know that sleep was an inconstant mercy. 

It was a mercy to be prayed for. For in the darkness lingered only ever Archie, resting frozen and ashen against the wall of this very cell. And he, heart racing, shouting in vain to bring the light back into those once laughing eyes. 

_Hunter, get help!_

Quickly, Horatio blinked away the image. He never wanted to see Archie so unreachable again. All the cannon fire in the world could not brand such terror in him. Yet Archie remained unnervingly still, blue eyes on the page. 

“Archie?” He spoke quietly, so as not to startle him, and then raised a hand when Archie did not respond, fingers skimming across a pale brow. No sign of fever, yet Horatio left his hand, unsatisfied. 

Archie’s lids fluttered at last, blue eyes flicking toward him. “Hmm? Yes?” 

Propping an elbow behind Archie’s head, Horatio paused to consider what he should say. Many things remained unsettled – what had passed between them before his punishment not the least of them – but it was unwise to burden a recovering man with much talk. 

“Archie, you haven’t spoken since you found your book. Are you all right?” 

A bashful look came over his friend’s features, and if Archie were not still pale from months of poor health Horatio thought his friend might blush now. Archie’s eyes darted from him to the book and then back again, tongue sweeping across his lips. He seemed unsure of where to look. 

“Ah, forgive me, Horatio . . .” Archie’s voice came thin and hoarse. Horatio glanced about for a pitcher of water, scowling to find none. “I must be out of practice with company. Not a great deal to say alone in the dark with the rats, is there?” 

Did Archie expect that after only days in that hole he could understand? He had endured only a pale shadow of Archie’s misery; it had taken more than a damned pit to turn the chattering imp who had greeted him aboard Justinian into a haunted man. A knot drew in Horatio’s chest, and he reached to gently extract the book from Archie’s hold. “You are not alone, Mr. Kennedy, and you have read these plays a thousand times.” He closed the worn leather, setting it aside. “And I should hope you know the difference between a rat and a friend.” 

To his surprise, a faint smile curved Archie’s lips. The blond head turned toward him, just shy of resting in the crook of his arm. Horatio closed his eyes. “I do,” Archie sighed. “I only have nothing to say.” He shook his head with a weak laugh. “All the better, I suppose.” Horatio smoothed his friend’s hair, frowning down at him. Archie must never think to hold his tongue when they were alone. 

Archie seemed to accept this attempt at comfort, his features relaxing. Horatio studied the smooth skin of Archie’s brow, so near to his lips – parched still from cold and lack of water, but not rough as they had been upon his release three days before. Would even the smallest kiss still be welcome? He pushed the question away. Damn him, but his thoughts would not be still. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” he did his best to smile, to bring some cheer into this damned mess, “there is nothing you should say.” The statement rang hollow, and perhaps untrue given the volumes he wished to hear, but he drew a breath and went on. “I’m the one who must thank you.” He brought his free hand across his chest to rest over Archie’s on the blanket, 

meeting the blue gaze fixed on his face. Archie’s eyes brimmed with such disbelief Horatio could only think to grasp the hand under his. “Thank you, Archie.” He pressed his friend’s hand to his lips, cheeks burning at such a clumsy gesture. But he would do anything to prove he spoke in earnest. 

A warm puff of breath escaped Archie’s lips, a laugh that would not come, perhaps, or a sigh of exasperation. Recalling the Archie of old, it would be both. Yet Archie still appeared uncertain, staring at their clasped hands, before licking his lips again.. 

“For God’s sake, after all you’ve done, Horatio –“ 

“I know what I’ve done, Mr. Kennedy.” He released Archie’s hand, his voice firming as he stared hard into his friend’s eyes. “I would be grateful if you would allow me to amend it what little I may.” 

Instantly, Archie dropped his gaze. That stung; he would not have Archie look away, but rather have him impart how in the Devil he had survived in that pit. Yet of course Archie would look away from him now; he had spoken harshly. The world had been harsh enough toward Archie Kennedy over the past years. Horatio sank into the bed again and sighed. 

“I’m not angry with you, Horatio.” The words came light and soft, the small voice of a child come to terms with his heart. He could feel Archie’s eyes on him, daring to fix only on his chest. Horatio’s only response was to let his other hand slide through the golden hair spilling over his sleeve where Archie had edged closer. 

“Anymore?” Horatio ventured for him. Archie’s body tensed against him, but Horatio shook his head. There was nothing to fear in the truth. He had seen his part in this miserable tale the instant he had first laid eyes on Archie here. He would not expect forgiveness, nor accept its pretence. If Archie laid blame on him then he must take it, even if it crushed him. 

Archie had too good a heart, however, and pulled himself up, leaning on an elbow. “It isn’t your fault, Horatio.” Those blue eyes were fierce, demanding he look at him. Horatio did, battling a wave of remorse. He could only see a man pale with illness, and the scars he had found on Archie’s skin days ago. He could only curse that moment he had brought the tiller down upon Archie’s head. “It isn’t your fault that you wanted to complete that mission and survive, that I have fits or that S –“ 

“Archie . . . “ Horatio pressed his fingers to his friend’s lips before Archie could say that name. Simpson may be dead, but the monster’s ghost loomed over his conscience still. Clayton had warned him that Simpson was the cause of Archie’s ailment. If he had not been such a damned fool caught up in his own excitement he would have struck Archie on the head in his hammock to keep him from setting foot anywhere near that boat while Simpson was in it. 

Gently, Horatio took his fingers from those soft lips – sweet, they had tasted – and settled for pushing feathery gold locks away from those troubled eyes. One finger traced the strong jaw, returning Archie’s gaze to his. Horatio strained to keep his thoughts clean of desire and the memory of that night, when they had clung to each other feverishly in the firelight. 

“Archie, it was I who—“ 

“No, please,” Archie shook his head so fiercely Horatio’s hand fell away. “Horatio, listen to me . . .” His tongue darted across his lips, fingers picking restlessly at the edge of the blankets. “Please let me forget, If you do not, then I cannot either, not if every time you look at me I know what you see. ‘Poor Mr. Kennedy, can’t walk. Where’s a pistol to put the poor devil out of his misery?’ Please, Horatio . . .” Archie squeezed his eyes shut. “Couldn’t we just pretend you had looked away?” 

A lump rose in Horatio’s throat. He swallowed fast against it, his eyes burning worse than the sting of powder. The ill feeling was even worse than the terror of climbing aloft, facing the sea hundreds of feet below. Archie did seem as far from him now, as he was in that memory that refused to fade even after two years. Once again Horatio saw himself perched on the _Papillon_ ’s sails in the night. The shot rang through his ears, his heart screaming. 

“Archie, I would not see you drift from me.” 

He only dared to whisper it, and had not meant for the words to be so strained. Archie lowered his face, pushing the hair from his eyes with both hands. “Horatio . . .” Christ, Archie was trembling. A man struggling not to cry. A man who did not cry. A man who suffered fits because he would not cry. 

Archie lifted his head. No coward there, blue eyes unmasking all his pain and desperation. Horatio knew he would rather perish than have his own soul so exposed, but whatever Archie had fought to bury in his book he was determined not to hide any longer. 

There was no refusing that striking blue gaze. How had any of his captors managed it? Or had Archie simply been too proud to plead, surviving their punishments only to choose death on his own terms? Yet he pleaded now. Horatio swallowed hard; was it he who had broken him, then? If that were so, then he could not compound Archie’s shame by denying him what he asked. 

“My apologies, Archie,” he managed in a steadier voice. “You were reading and I have imposed. Here,” he stretched to retrieve the book from the floor. “Where were you, damn these pages,” one hand flipped them clumsily, the other on the pillow behind Archie still. “I’ll find it, Archie. Here –“ 

A hand on his chest stopped him. His body froze as it slid up, curling under his jaw. One moment he was staring at the book and the next giving a start to feel a warm cheek against his own. He made to speak, but the words died. His lips tingled with the soft warmth of Archie’s breath. A hundred needles pricked inside his belly to have those glittering eyes on him. They drank his thoughts away, steady but uncertain, and if Horatio guessed correctly, pleased at having startled him. 

“Quite all right, Horatio. I know them all by heart.” Archie paused to wet his lips, that silver voice growing unbearably soft. “I slept here while you were gone. I . . . I was afraid to tell you. I couldn’t help it, you see?” 

“Why?” Horatio whispered the only thing he could. Oh, he knew the practical reasons, that it might have made it easier to tend Hunter, but Archie’s hesitation puzzled him. 

A grin shaped Archie’s lips. Horatio’s heart sped at that first sign of genuine amusement this hour, even if it was at his expense. “One does not easily forget the moment he had Horatio Hornblower at a disadvantage.” 

The meaning was unmistakable. So _that_ was what plagued Archie tonight. Strange, the relief flooding him that Archie should dwell on it too. Horatio dared to close his eyes, his memory swimming with the crackle of the flames, their whispers. He had never understood how a man could lose himself in pleasure until he had felt Archie’s mouth on his skin. 

_Poor Horatio,_ his friend had chuckled at his confusion after, _are the Articles all you know of the unspeakable vice of the Greeks?_

Horatio’s cheeks threatened to burn anew. He was not worldly; Miss Cobham had shown him that, but what they had done was not the unclean act randy seamen concealed below decks. He knew not what name to give it, nor did he know what a theatre-loving aristocrat would see in a solitary commoner who fumbled his way through polite dinners. Perhaps Archie saw nothing, and never had, only a way to ease the loneliness. He had never understood the notion of loneliness until his reveries of the past years had floated back to Archie Kennedy’s smile in the rain. 

Pierced by the memory, Horatio faltered for words. They came roughly, echoing from a dry throat. “Did you want to forget, Archie?” 

“Silly fool.” The gentle laugh made Horatio wonder if his friend had guessed his thoughts. It would not be the first time. Soft fingers returned to his face, drawing him so close Horatio could feel the sweep of lashes across his cheek as Archie closed his eyes. His lips parted, and then Archie’s mouth was on his, as warm and soft as he remembered. 

A stab of heat cut through his body, the kiss growing wet and rough, hungry. Mindlessly, he shoved Archie’s book toward his lap, where his body began to react. Damn his flesh, this must stop. He brought his hand to Archie’s wrist, prying free. 

“Archie . . .” The hot pressure of those lips still lingered on his mouth, knotting Horatio’s stomach tighter than any rigging. “Archie, Mr. Hunter might . . .” 

Hunter? Shame cut through Horatio’s desire. Was that all that stood between him and these pursuits? What of honor and caution? His conscience should not allow Archie to do what might be regretted after they were free. Better if he slipped out of this bed now, away to the other bunk. 

Archie only laughed at his attempt to turn away. Horatio bit his lip, finding Archie’s mouth mercilessly close to his ear. “To the Devil with him, Horatio.” 

He winced at the casual ruthlessness in that soft voice. “I would not have him think . . . Archie –” That warm mouth sought his neck, pressing one kiss and then another and another, growing in urgency. “Archie, please . . .” The heat of their bodies was dangerous enough. Archie had not survived captivity only to be hanged for immorality on Hunter’s word. 

“Horatio . . .” The rasping whisper danced along his spine like the tickle of a feather. He suppressed the shiver that followed; it was only his name. “It’s merely a kiss. You like it.” 

Horatio fought the stirring in his lap – it was not difficult, when his blood suddenly pounded with anger instead. “Archie, I am not –“ Not the sort to take advantage of a sick man, but Archie did not allow him to finish. 

Soft golden hair tickled his jaw as Archie bent close again, cheek resting against his own. Archie’s arm came around Horatio’s chest, drawing him against the hard furnace of his body. “It’s all right, Horatio,” there was only quiet coaxing in Archie’s voice. “So do I,” The careful whisper lingered over each word, followed by a low, rare, command. “Lie still.” 

Obeying was easier than Horatio thought, the voice in his ear strong and knowing. It brought a fleeting recollection of their time aboard Justinian, when Archie would lead him to some part of the ship where Simpson would not find them. The same nervous knot had clenched at his middle then, as they sat shoulder-to-shoulder whispering in the dark. He had trusted Archie to keep him safe, and saw no reason not to do so now. 

“There,” Archie’s fingers slipped inside the front of his shirt, brushing over his skin in an attempt to soothe him. “You see, Horatio? It doesn’t hurt.” 

“That may be,” his breath came unevenly. Surely Archie noted the rapid heartbeat under his hand. It was nothing compared to the throbbing below. “However, I would call it a little . . . uncomfortable.” 

Archie laughed at that sorry attempt at a joke, and Horatio did his best to smile at the familiar sound. He noted a heartbeat later that Archie had not moved at all, but seemed content to simply lay pressed against him, one hand on his chest as though Archie feared he would float away. It would be natural that Archie should savor the feel of another’s presence, considering, but Horatio thought Archie meant to . . . . 

“Someone’s coming.” Archie took his hand away, looking toward the door. Horatio raised his head. His ears caught slow footsteps outside, followed by the steady march of the Don’s men. 

“Hunter.” No need to glance a warning. Archie scrambled over him, peeling back the blankets. Horatio stared at him, and then shook his head. If Archie wished to remain here this was no time to argue. 

Edging away as much as the narrow bed would allow, Horatio glanced across the dusty floor at Archie’s empty bunk. Too late to think of taking it; the door swung open, slamming shut once Hunter limped inside. 

Their cellmate paused to steady himself. The candlelight did not reach every inch of the room, leaving Hunter in shadow. Still, Horatio could feel the midshipman’s eyes passing over Archie’s empty bed and then the two of them. Horatio shook off his suspicions with a frown; the sight of Archie curled toward the wall beneath the blanket should be nothing unfamiliar. 

“Mr. Kennedy asleep?” Hunter shrugged out of his jacket at last, moving away from the door. “Better keep an eye on him, sir, make sure he doesn’t stop eating again.” The midshipman seemed amused, though Archie’s health was no joking matter. Horatio only hoped Archie took no offense at the remark. “Mr. Kennedy is well enough, Mr. Hunter. I for one am indebted to him for his care.” 

He could not help but glance at Archie beside him. Only tousled blonde hair showed above the blankets. His eyes were closed, managing the ruse of sleep well enough. Indeed, there was no sign they had been curled together a moment before. Color crept into Horatio’s cheeks; his body still tingling from those burning kisses. 

“Better leave him where is, then, sir. He must be cold.” 

Ignoring Hunter’s reply, Horatio snuffed the light. He blinked as darkness swept into the room, any light blocked by Hunter climbing into his bunk. After a moment, Horatio’s eyes adjusted and he transferred his attention to Archie, no more than a shadow in the scant moonlight, still and brushed with silver. Hunter uttered nothing more above them, but whether he slept Horatio did not know. Perhaps the man dreamed of freedom, or regretted the chance of escape he had rashly thrown away. Horatio shook his head; it was not his place to guess where a fool’s thoughts lay. 

That Hunter might have learned his lesson gave no comfort. There was still Oldroyd, and not even men like Styles or Matthews possessed eternal patience. Soon he would have to begin plans of escape, or else there would be more witless attempts that might cost lives. Archie would be more forthcoming with information this time, and his command of Spanish was an advantage, but none of that settled Horatio’s thoughts. There seemed nothing satisfying or honorable in the prospect of escape. 

God damn it all to Hell, Horatio rolled his head back and sighed. There were far too many things to consider, and with Hunter breathing loudly above him and Archie so close he thought his head would burst. He tugged the blanket over himself; it was warmer that way at least. 

The form beneath the blankets shifted. Horatio fought a pang of guilt for disturbing him. A sly grin banished the thought as Archie rolled toward him, pushing more of the blanket in his direction. Horatio took his end of it, smoothing the wool so that it covered them both. 

“Planning our escape, Horatio?” Even the barely audible whisper held a distinctly teasing edge. His cheeks heated to have his own words tossed back at him. “Or yours?” Archie’s eyes darted toward the empty bed across the room. 

“Can’t sleep.” Horatio rubbed his palm over his lips, stifling a yawn, and then stretched an arm across the pillow, allowing Archie closer. The last thing he needed was for Archie to fall ill from not keeping warm enough. 

Archie settled against his shoulder – the only comfortable way to fit in this damned bed. “Nor can I,” his friend sighed. “For once I envy Hunter, dead to the world up there.” Archie’s laugh was quiet enough, but still Horatio touched his hand in warning. 

Relenting, Archie fell silent beside him. Horatio swallowed hard. Should Archie curl any nearer it would push him to the floor. The thought seemed unreasonable; the floor was cold and dirty, Archie was only flesh, nothing to edge away from. Nonetheless, Horatio was acutely aware of Archie’s hip against his own, the length of a strong thigh, their feet tangled together – all points of heat, excitement and comfort. 

One foot rubbed purposely against his. Horatio’s body tightened; even Archie’s feet were warm. A small grin curved Archie’s features. “Ticklish?” he whispered back, amused at his discomfort. Horatio only nodded, deciding it better to stay quiet before they woke Hunter with their nonsense. 

Turning on the pillow, his gaze could not help but fix on his friend’s face. The faint light revealed closed eyes, suggesting a sense of calm Horatio had not seen in him since they had met. He had watched Archie many nights from his hammock aboard Justinian, but never throughout those vigils had he stopped to think him beautiful. Now Horatio could not bar the word from his mind. 

Before he thought better of it, Horatio’s fingers came up, brushing the perfectly curving cheek, the strong jaw. He touched with the fascination of one who knew nothing of art and could only wonder how such a masterpiece was made. Yet Archie was not ink or painted lines, nor was he silver stone, as the moonlight would make him seem. He was flesh, decidedly warm, and damnably responsive. 

Archie turned, gazing down at him. Heat sparked instantly in Horatio’s body, his eyes settling on Archie’s lips, a mere inch from his. His fingers could not resist skipping downward, tracing the curve of that pink mouth. Blue eyes glittered, even in the dimness, fluttering shut as Horatio slid his thumb between those soft, waiting lips. They parted and welcomed him. 

As if the invitation were not clear enough, Archie’s fingers twined in his hair. Even Hunter must have heard the drumming of his heart as Horatio waited, his stomach trembling. Archie’s soft sigh caressed his lips, and then Horatio met those shining eyes. His breath tangled in his throat. 

Horatio closed his eyes, rewarded a heartbeat later with the hot pressure of Archie’s mouth. The kiss was slow, deliberate, and then it was Archie’s tongue, stroking across his lower lip before sliding into his mouth. 

The breath he had been holding was swallowed up between them. His head was suddenly light, spinning from the pounding of blood and the need for air. Horatio clung to Archie with both hands, striving to taste more of him while the strength was still in him. 

They were both left dizzy and panting when their lips left one another’s. Horatio’s eyes flew open, taking in the dark cell he had for a moment left behind. Caution cut through the heady cloud of desire. He looked to Archie, still catching his breath. God damn it, they would hang for certain if they did not come to their senses. 

He made to remind Archie of Hunter’s presence, but two fingers to his lips silenced him. Archie’s grip tightened, angling his head for another kiss. This time Horatio lay still, letting that hot mouth melt him with the moist, rolling pleasure of it. 

His lips tingled when Archie pulled away, as if he’d had too much brandy. His hands were claws the back of Archie’s shirt, palms sticky with sweat. Releasing the cloth, he encircled Archie in one arm, using the other to straighten his friend’s collar and hair. It was all Horatio could see in the moonlight – pale shirt, pale skin, tousled hair – though he could not wish for a more stirring sight. 

Archie’s body curved into his as if made to fit there, his heart hammering just as wildly as his own. Horatio frowned, at a loss for what to do, doubting even his captain could tell him. He had not felt such a witless fool since facing Foster and Hammond in Gibraltar. Dismasted did not even begin to describe it. 

“Archie . . .?” 

“Shh . . . “ A fleeting brush of lips stole the words from his mouth. Horatio tipped his head back, exposing his throat to a shower of kisses. One, two, three; they fell like stinging sparks. His body arched from the bed, responses uncontrollable now. Archie would soon laugh at that for certain, Hunter be damned. Another kiss caressed the hollow of his throat, as if to deny it, or perhaps to distract him from the hand tugging up his shirt. 

Warm fingers grazed the taut flesh of his belly, drawing shivers. They slid up, brushing shapeless patterns over his chest. Horatio’s breath caught at the painful intimacy of it. Archie had not touched him this way before, on his bare skin. Was it this irrational magic that led men to believe in such notions as a god or a savior? That a touch could leave his body shaking was indeed proof of the unexplainable. Only an impish grin answered this, dangling a promise of further wonders. 

Archie’s hand crept down, stopping just at the edge of his breeches. Horatio twisted, the sharp burn of humiliation cutting through the fire of his lust. He raised his knee in a vain attempt to cover the shameful hardness in his lap, turning his head away. Archie’s fingers lifted his chin, meeting his lips with another brief kiss that could only be pity for an ignorant fool who could save his ship but not control his own cock in his breeches. Horatio fought the sudden urge to bury his face in Archie’s shoulder and weep. This unnatural lust would kill them both. 

“Horatio, it’s all right,” Archie murmured to him as if he were weeping. Agile fingers slid the first button free. Warm lips covered his, muffling a whimper of surprise. “Let me.” 

His eyes went wide; let him do _what?_ He was not fool enough to ask, but the determination in Archie’s voice and in that kiss did not permit refusal. Capitulation must have shown in his features, for Archie left the buttons, stretching one leg across his and sliding on top of him. 

The crushing heat of his friend’s body left him panting. Horatio shifted, untangling his feet from the blanket. The cool air provided only a moment’s relief from the sticky heat between them. His legs were spread around Archie’s body, hard flesh pressing insistently against his own. Shame splintered into desperation to drown in what burned inside them both, to reflect it, release it at whatever cost. Horatio’s hips slid up, thrusting impatiently against the man above him. 

Archie threw his head back, biting his lip against a hissing breath. “Don’t do that.” A strong thigh pinned Horatio to the bed. “Or we will wake him.” 

Heat scorched Horatio’s cheeks; the thought of frightening him. . . . Unsure of what else to do, he rubbed a hand over Archie’s back apologetically. A contented sigh reassured him, though Archie’s heart continued to beat wildly against his own. Despite himself, Horatio took a strange comfort in it. So painfully sweet, to be lost together. 

“Archie . . .” He wet his lips, staring over their tangled bodies in the moonlight, white shirt and dark blanket and bare feet and hands, twined into one being. “It hurts, Archie,” he whispered against his friend’s neck, “wanting you.” 

Softly, Archie kissed his cheek and then his lips. “Horatio, God made pain so that we could not doubt His mercy.” A merry sinner indeed, to make such a jest in the midst of transgression. “Let me show you.” 

Archie slid down his body before he could consider what any of this might mean. Horatio whimpered at the anguish Archie’s shifting caused his lap. A strong hand pinned his shirt high on his chest, and Archie bent, touching his lips to the tingling skin, licking a hot trail to one nipple. Horatio’s eyes slammed shut, pleasure surging through his lower body, pulsing so sharply he could have cried. Shaking fingers dug into Archie’s shoulders, but the other man only raised his head, grinning back at him. 

“Shh,” Archie warned with a finger to his lips. One hand splayed over Horatio’s stomach, hot as a brand. He watched wide-eyed as Archie slipped half beneath the blanket, face and hands marble-like in the moonlight as he finished with the buttons. 

Soft fingers curled around him a moment later, cradling his hard flesh against a warm palm. Horatio’s head thrashed on the pillow; it was the most shattering sensation he had yet known, igniting every nerve in his body. The pad of a thumb played gently over the length of him, teasing until he quivered. So skillful; where had Archie learned this? Horatio fought for some control over his own heaving body. He should feel vulnerable, filthy, but damn it he would have begged for more were it not for waking Hunter. 

“Close your eyes,” he thought he heard Archie whisper, and quickly Horatio obeyed, only dimly wondering if Archie somehow read the pleading in his face and once again took pity. Horatio waited, utterly still, and then all at once he was writhing on the blankets. 

Moist lips brushed his burning hardness, searing him with the most exquisite of kisses. For a moment Horatio lay open-mouthed, barely holding in a groan. A strong hand pressed his hips to the bed, steadying him, and Archie gave him a moment to catch his breath before resuming this wonderful torture. 

This time Archie’s mouth wrapped tight around him, tugging gently as his head moved back. The pleasure burned, rising in intensity, and then ebbing with the sweet tongue wetting the length of him. Horatio thrust upward, shuddering from head to foot. Those soft lips relented, offering him all he wanted as Archie found a rhythm, slow but so masterful that Horatio’s body had no choice but to fall into it, arching up to meet his lover again and again. The heat was excruciating, combined with the stroke of Archie’s hand where lips and tongue did not reach. 

Horatio's fingers sought handfuls of golden hair, gripping tight. The world narrowed into only that velvet mouth and the surging ache. His thighs shook helplessly under the hard pressure of Archie’s lips. There was no stopping it; streaks of light flashed behind his lids as the climax swept him up, gripping his body so fiercely he could not have cried out if he wanted to. At last the intensity subsided; he came crashing back into his own body, as though from great fall he had scarcely survived. Over and over Horatio gulped at the air, dragging breath into his lungs. God only knew how many moments passed before his heart resumed its normal rate, but somehow it managed. Silence stretched, leaving him to languish in sluggish peace. 

He became aware of a hand straightening his shirt a moment later, draping a blanket over him. Horatio’s eyes flew open, sorting out light and shadow until he found himself in a dark prison cell. He started, as if awakened from a dream, sobering with the sharp understanding of what had passed. 

“Archie . . .” A chill seized him, dread that might have been paralyzing were he not so weak. Hunter lay above them and what they had done carried the penalty of death. His own greedy lust had led him to endanger his friend’s life. 

A hand rubbed gently as his shoulder, resting firmly enough to prevent him from bolting up. Horatio blinked, finding Archie kneeling on the blanket. 

“He’s still asleep, Horatio. I was listening.” Archie withdrew his hand, never willing to grant their cellmate more than a passing thought. Horatio wondered vaguely if Archie wished Hunter to hear them and had done this out of daring. “Feel better?” he friend shook off the matter before he could press it. 

Horatio frowned, instantly contrite. Archie was not careless, or petty; caution was so innate in him it only went too easily overlooked. He sat up, gazing into gentle blue eyes and then at the soft mouth that had so selfishly drawn out the poison of his lust. Dear God, how could Archie have . . . but something in his friend’s expression refused any words of apology. 

Staring down at the blankets, Horatio wet his lips. Archie deserved honesty, not to be berated for recklessness like a foolish rating. It was not easy, gathering the courage to look at him, much less speak of something so . . . intimate. 

“Yes, I . . . I feel . . . like I could sleep.” 

It was no lie; the lingering weariness settled as thick as the fog that had brought him here. Still, the words were too clumsy. He was no poet, and knew not how to say that he had never known a sweeter thing than what Archie had done for him. 

“I know,” Archie nodded in the dark, as if those faltering words were the answer he wanted. His mouth curved into a faint grin. So they were indeed. “I have been sleeping well of late. I thought I would return the favor.” 

Horatio managed to smile at the weak jest, though he wanted to say that Archie owed him nothing. He did not deserve the other man’s gift, but Archie might be hurt by such words, or think him ungrateful, or worse, think himself filthy for having given it. Wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulders, Horatio drew Archie against him. “Thank you,” he murmured instead, kissing Archie’s forehead through his hair. Archie grew tense, but did not draw back. Perhaps his friend wished to be closer, perhaps he needed . . . . 

“Horatio . . .” 

The unsteady whisper broke the thought. Horatio glanced down; the man against him suddenly seemed so fragile, even as he pulled away. Horatio kept a hand on Archie’s shoulder, ready to embrace him again should Archie seek it. Yet Archie remained where he was, and after another heartbeat, he spoke. 

“In . . . in the Don’s pit . . . I prayed whatever god is up there would send you to me.” 

Horatio’s eyes widened; for days he had waited to hear something of Archie’s time in that place, but not this. He did not deserve to be thought of so well; he was no deliverer, but the devil who had damned Archie in the first place. 

Archie seemed to misread his silence, lowering his head. Whether the gesture was one of guilt or shame Horatio did not know. It did not matter; neither sentiment was necessary. 

“I’m here, Archie.” He smoothed his friend's soft golden hair. Once again, Horatio considered taking Archie in his arms. How warm and sweet it would be to feel the other man relax against him, without the fog of desire clouding their minds, but Archie drew away before he could reach for him, letting out a small sigh. Horatio wondered if his friend sensed his wish and mistook it for pity. 

Archie’s voice was level when he spoke again. “Never doubted it, Horatio, but . . .” he paused to glance across the room. “We’ve risked enough. Better get to my own bed while my eyes are still open.” 

“I believe that might be wise,” Horatio nodded, unable to keep the regret from his voice. Foolish to even think of asking Archie to remain here; thank God Archie climbed off the bunk before he could. Horatio watched him slip beneath the blankets, silent as a cat. Archie turned toward him on the pillow, appearing to smile in the faint light. 

Returning that smile faintly, Horatio closed his eyes. He might have liked to remain awake, pondering amends for what Archie had given him tonight, but his body was too sated for thought. Instead, he lay still, certain that the silence of the cell would soon carry him to sleep.


	3. Absolution

He had not seen the Mediterranean shore when first he had come to Spain,   
knocked unconscious after a few uncivil words to the Frogs who were to   
hand him over. That seemed a lifetime ago. The ragged beauty of her sharp   
cliffs and clear cerulean waters surprised him now as their boat emerged   
from the small tunnel where bridge arched over rock. His own sense of   
resignation surprised him, too, but why should it? This was not another of   
those long marches toward a new hell. He was not alone, or in irons, but   
here by choice and the credibility of his word.

Striving for a countenance as resolute as that thought, Archie allowed his gaze to drift to the shore, where on the fort’s outer wall stood the Commandant among a small crowd of onlookers. Once, it had unnerved him to look at this man, from whose austere gaze no transgression could be hidden, but as they drew closer, Archie met the Don’s suspicious eyes out of pure defiance. He was the son of an earl and could abide by the rules of honor and parole as well as Horatio. 

The thought sent him glancing at Horatio behind him. His friend stood tall in the unsteady boat, grasping the tiller in one arm, waving the other in greeting to the Don, as if he returned in triumph and not out of obligation. Massaredo returned the salute, his weathered features lit with the same pride Pellew had shown Horatio the morning he had spied their rowboat, a man who only had eyes for his hero, enemy or no. 

As they stepped ashore, the men and women on the wall called out to them, not the usual abuse shouted at enemy prisoners, but cheerful cries of “ _los Ingleses!_ ” Archie smiled up at them. So this time the glory was not all for Horatio alone? Strange, he had never thought to receive a warmer welcome from his enemies than from his own shipmates, but the Spaniards had not forgotten who had saved their men from the sea. 

His body had not forgotten that endeavor either. Miss Cobham had forced him to lie down for a time aboard the _Indie_ , but that had hardly helped. His limbs were weak and his head throbbed from the salute Pellew had fired. He hoped for a long nap the instant he and Horatio returned to their cell, where there would no longer be any distraction to conceal the state of his health from Horatio’s eyes. 

The past two days had afforded little time for his friend’s persistent nannying. Aboard the _Indie_ Horatio had been so preoccupied with the Captain that they had not spoken at all. It stung, dimly, to witness the palpable admiration Horatio and Pellew bore one another, particularly when the Captain had forgotten his face altogether. It should not have surprised him, for neither his capture nor return made for valiant tales – forgetting that night in the Gironde was the kindest thing anyone could do for him. Pellew was likely glad to be rid of him once some cruel soul had identified the sickly fool shivering on his quarterdeck. Probably the entire crew knew by now that he was alive only by the grace of Horatio’s pity. 

The idea grated less than expected, perhaps for the fact that the notion of an invincible and fearless Hornblower had become absurd. Horatio might be undaunted by the raging sea, but he was fragile as glass in the face of carnal passion. Archie alone knew that, and aboard ship had amused himself pondering how the ratings might react to a hero terrified by his own flesh. In all likelihood, they would laugh at him instead and claim that Archie Kennedy was Hornblower’s whore – or worse, his catamite. Good God, he would beg Pellew to hang him then. 

“Well, come on, men!” Horatio’s shout sent a wave of pain through his skull. Archie winced, shaking off the trance that had come over him, snapping his gaze from the water – a pale aqua now against the shore. He brought into focus the faces of the men around him; they radiated nothing but trust and thoughtless loyalty as they followed Horatio toward the fort. Archie could not help but smile, falling in step beside Horatio. They would follow him into Hell itself. 

The Don’s men wasted no time in whisking them inside El Ferrol’s gates, but when Archie glanced up the Commandant himself had gone. He was glad of it, and equally glad that Horatio kept close at his shoulder as they marched down the familiar walkways after Styles and Mathews and the others had been led away, or else he might have bolted on instinct the instant the smirking guard rattled a key into the familiar lock. Horatio caught his eye then, but Archie glanced away from the worry and guilt in that dark gaze, doing his best to put on a brave face, purposely stepping first through the door. 

The cell was as cramped as he remembered – though cleaner perhaps. This time it would seem less so, without Hunter, whose sour presence would hardly be missed. He nearly jumped when the door slammed shut behind them, and then wondered ruefully whether Horatio had the same silly impulse. They shared an awkward smile, the tension in it prompting Archie to speak. 

“Almost feels like home,” he muttered with what he hoped was humor. His home was nothing like this; he had been raised in a castle for God’s sake. 

Horatio only smiled weakly, hoisting himself onto Hunter’s old bunk. He missed the irony, of course, because he had never lain here alone for long weeks, condemning himself to rot as though this were a tomb. They had found each other here, therefore this place held no foreboding memory for Horatio. 

_It’s merely a room, a room where you and Horatio are going to stay until . . . until God only knows when._

Slumping onto his own bunk, Archie let that thought slip away, leaning his head back, grateful for something sturdy to rest his body against after two exhausting days at sea. His heart had no room for dread of the future; the past kept him occupied well enough. 

He might have dozed there against the wall – God knew he wanted to – but the thud of Horatio’s feet jarred him awake. Archie rubbed his eyes, unaware that Horatio had been studying him. 

“Archie?” The scene changed as Horatio moved toward him. Archie saw both Hunter and Horatio looming over him, his body sick with the searing shame of their respective disgust and pity. “Archie?” He blinked, returning to the present. Horatio came nearer, lowering his voice. “Archie, are you all right? You seem a little . . . pale.” 

Archie swallowed hard under the piercing weight of those enormous eyes. The sheer alarm in them made him glance down at himself, half expecting to find that grimy, frail creature he had been weeks ago instead of a tired midshipman in a decently clean uniform. _Good God, he’ll haul you back to the Indie by your hair if you don’t liven up._ Archie winced; he would hardly know what to do on a ship anymore – he had hardly known what to do back in the infirmary while Horatio was out. Better to muster some grit and stay here with his friend. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Archie tried to smile. It quickly became a grimace. _He’s your friend, not a servant in your father’s house; talk to him._ “Your daring rescues have had me moving about more than I have in years, Horatio.” That was not true; the long journeys across France had been thrice as grueling, but Horatio would balk at those details. Dismissing them, Archie did his best to square his shoulders, straightening from the wall. “Well, what shall we do? Though I suppose we don’t lack for time.” 

A tricky question, considering that what they had been doing of late kept Horatio on edge like a skittish rabbit. Confounding Horatio had not been his intention. He had only wanted to give pleasure, express his gratitude and affection. In their years apart he had thought Horatio had at least . . . . The more fool he, for the image of Horatio heaving on top of some doxy or fornicating below decks was almost as laughable as he commanding the fleet. Better not to think on such things now, lest Horatio start fretting over the subject all over again. 

“Whatever you feel up to, Archie,” was the cheerless reply. Horatio turned to gaze out of the window, no doubt caring nothing for his own confinement, only lamenting the freedom his promise had denied them all. How did he bear his own constant contrition? Archie shook his head; if his body would work properly he would get up and knock the guilt from Horatio in short order. 

But his body was not working properly, and so he confined himself to answering Horatio instead. “Not very much, I’m afraid.” There was no use in hiding it, and no use in making his friend suffer for it either. “Horatio, you’ve proven your honor to the Don. If you want to go for a walk in the village I could read while you’re out.” 

Turning toward him, Horatio blinked once before looking away again, perhaps to hide his frown. Archie stared down at his lap, scowling. Horatio did not have to look so hurt. He hardly wanted him to go. Archie was too afraid of what would happen if he did. Probably he would end up huddled under the blankets, trembling with old memories. He really was a fine mess. 

Horatio left the window, peering at him with that probing stare again, as if inspecting his body for wounds. He’s afraid to leave you alone. _He’s afraid you’ll take a bedsheet and hang yourself._ Archie licked his lips, ready to insist that he would be all right, but Horatio saved him the trouble. 

“I fear I’ve missed your lessons, Archie.” his eyes were soft and melting. I’ve more to teach you, Archie smiled back. He may as well have said it aloud for all the blushing Horatio did when their eyes met. “It might be wise to master the language of our new home before venturing out too far.” 

What a poor flirt, Archie snorted, but did not tease him for it. “I think you’re right,” he said. “It’s too late for them to bother us with supper. Fetch Cervantes, Horatio! We can read until it’s time for bed.” That had been their habit anyway. Perhaps it was better to keep to a routine; the dutiful Hornblower thrived on structure after all. 

“It would seem that bedtime is nearer at hand than you realize, Archie. You’d best get out of that uniform before you fall asleep in it.” 

Rubbing his eyes, Archie managed a grin. “Again, you’re right, Horatio.” He did his best to stand up on his sore legs without teetering, but swayed the instant he tried to take a step. 

“Archie . . . “ Horatio caught him by the shoulders, steadying him, the tips of his fingers lingering as he did so. “If you need . . .” 

Archie bit his lip. _He enjoys undressing you. He even enjoys cleaning you like a babe._ The last thought was enough to quell the uneasy warmth Horatio’s touch stirred up in him. He could not let Horatio treat him like an invalid for the rest of his life. “I’ll be sure to ask,” he shook off Horatio’s hands, moving toward his dunage in the corner. 

He was aware of Horatio’s eyes on him as he unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat, and hesitated before pulling off his shirt, sensing the concern and pity that would fill those eyes the instant he did so. Strange, he had never been ashamed of his body, and the scars on his skin were likely not so terrible, yet he wished. . . . 

_.It isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before, in the infirmary. Remember how he touched you? No one has been that kind to you in years._

_The kindness of a nursemaid, or a doctor’s son._

It was no good. He tossed the shirt over his head, picking up the nightshirt and slipping into it as fast as he could and then stepping out of his trousers. At least they had washed earlier, and had no need to now, alone together. Damn it, Archie shook his head. This was ridiculous. _You had your mouth all over him the other night, where was this modesty then?_

Turning at last, Archie found that Horatio was no longer looking at him, but pulling on his own nightshirt. It was very early for bed, but sailors were used to keeping odd hours with respect to rotating the watch, not to mention that Horatio must also be exhausted after the previous night. Archie sighed, trudging back to his bunk, folding his jacket there for a pillow before sitting down again. 

“Now, where were we, Archie,” he looked up to find Horatio facing him, the Don’s dusty Cervantes in hand. Archie moved to take their usual place beneath the window, where they would sit with the candle between under the cool Mediterranean breeze, but Horatio stopped him with a shake of his head. “Get under the blankets, Archie.” 

_He doesn’t have to coddle me,_ Archie could not keep from grimacing, yet sometimes it was easier to simply do as Horatio wished. With a sigh, he pulled the blankets up to his lap, folding his arms outside of them, hoping that would do. 

Apparently satisfied, Horatio perched on the edge of the bunk, laying the worn volume between them. Archie took it up, flipping through the pages, his tired eyes stinging as he tried to read the words. 

“Here,” he pushed the book over to Horatio in frustration. “You read, Horatio. If you butcher any words I’ll be sure to tell you.” 

Accepting the book with one hand, Horatio rested the other on his shoulder, gently pushing him toward the bed. “Lie down, then, Archie.” He withdrew his hand and folded it in his lap, muttering. “Perhaps it’s better that you’re here where I can be certain you’ll take care for yourself.” 

Shifting his head on his makeshift pillow, Archie shot Horatio a vexed look through his lashes. “If it weren’t for your grand ideas, Mr. Hornblower, and all that infernal holding on for dear life through that . . . “ Horatio disarmed him with a smile, and then returned his attention to the book. Archie closed his eyes as his friend began to read. 

It was somewhat awkward, lying in the narrow bunk with Horatio sitting up beside him and he nearly curled against his hip, but his body was too weary to be particular about its position. A drowsy daze settled over him, and he seemed to be floating, carried by the rhythm of Horatio’s voice and the fluid Spanish words. 

After a moment, Archie became dimly aware that Horatio had gone quiet and that a hand was idly stroking his hair. Too weary to move, or even smile, Archie lay still, giving in to sleep. 

He awoke to confining darkness, weakness tingling through his limbs. If there had been light, Archie knew too well what it would reveal, a deserted storeroom lined with empty barrels, the sort of place no one would think to look. His head was heavy, spinning as if he were drowning. Had Simpson struck him? He thought he recalled dropping his book, the vague sensation of hands on his body before all had gone black. 

_Oh God. . ._. 

A bolt of fear shot through him at the distinct awareness of someone very near. Sensations tumbled back, myriad things – strong hands pinning his arms, a painful tugging at his scalp, hot blood trickling down his lip, down his thighs, that grueling rhythm against his hips, and then one side of his face being driven into the metal and wood. 

_Come on, Clayton, Jack will share!_

“No . . .” 

A wave of sickness swelled up inside him. He would find a pistol and this would end. He would see the bastard bleed even if he died with him. Archie turned, pulling his broken body up, his heart stopping at the feel of strong arms closing around his waist. 

“Archie . . .” 

“No,” Archie kicked, twisting with all his strength. The arms around him tightened, pushing his face against a warm thigh. His stomach heaved, cold sweat making him shiver. Not this. . . . He had bitten the bastard once, the first time, and he had paid. The price did not matter now, so long as he could cause pain. His teeth sank into the flesh beneath him, his body thrashing to free himself from those constricting arms. 

“Archie!” That sharp cry pierced through the daze of sleep. The familiar voice did not belong to Simpson, and the heaving weight against his body vanished the instant Archie’s eyes flew open. The creaking confines of the Justinian vanished, too, leaving him in a prison cell scantly lit by moonlight, just bright enough to reveal the figure kneeling by his bed. 

His eyes squeezed shut with the realization that Horatio had been watching. His body curled up like a babe’s by habit, paralyzed yet ill, and his teeth against the tumult in his body, one hand gripping the blanket. 

With each heartbeat, the arresting horror began to fade and he was able to swallow without his insides quivering. Archie wet his lips, loosening his hand from the bedclothes, letting his body lie limp until his breathing calmed. There was no reason to cower now; Horatio had seen him fitting on Justinian’s deck and had been witness to his nightmares many times. 

“Horatio . . .” the name came hoarsely. Archie swallowed, shifting just enough to find himself tangled in the sheets and his own nightshirt, the thin linen clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. 

“Here,” Horatio slid an arm around his back, guiding him into a sitting position as if he were still too ill and weak to hold himself up. Perhaps he was, for his body sagged into the half embrace while Horatio tugged the blankets free. 

Horatio still did not seem pleased even after he freed him, and small wonder; he was covered in sweat and breathing rapidly. “Archie, I think we’d better get this –“ In the faint light, he saw Horatio shake his head as he gathered the hem of his nightshirt and lifted it up. 

Archie’s body tightened on instinct, too used to unwelcome touches, but the rush of cool air over his clammy skin quickly cleared his mind. Relief flooded him to have the space of two years between his body and those awful memories; relief, and something sharper, something that made him quiver as Horatio’s cool hand brushed his skin. 

Tossing the garment aside, Horatio sank to the floor before him. No amount of darkness could conceal the worry in his eyes. “What was it this time, Archie?” The low, patient tone should have soothed him, but Archie lowered his head, buckling under an onslaught of shame. He had always known this question would come. “Simpson?” 

His stomach clenched, in danger of being ill all over again, and for a moment Archie busied himself with smoothing the blankets. 

“Yes,” he winced at his own thin whisper, instantly wishing to take it back. But even if he could, it was too late to hide; he was shaking visibly. Even in the darkness Horatio could see it. 

“Archie, tell me; what did he do?” 

It was no more than a whisper, yet the question struck him like that tiller blow, and with it a hundred violations, a hundred unspeakable crimes came streaming back in one miserable parade. Archie blinked, frowning at Horatio for his salient ignorance of the very existence of such things, much less their impact on a man’s mind. 

His hands tightened on the blankets in a useless attempt to steady himself. “You don’t know?” A witless question. Of course Horatio did not know, he had managed to remain pure and naive even after the crucible of Justinian. 

Horatio slid nearer, and Archie found himself suddenly cold, wanting his nightshirt again to cover the body Simpson had shamed. He thought of asking for it, but Horatio spoke before he could. 

“I know he hurt you,” a careful hand came to rest upon his knee, undemanding, but unnerving all the same, Archie fought the urge to edge away. “I cannot guess what a man might do to a fellow man to cause him fits and nightmares two years later. I’d be grateful if you’d tell me, Archie.” 

The stern, dry tone would not be denied. He could feel the weight of Horatio’s eyes, heavier than Simpson’s body had ever been, demanding he give far more than Simpson had taken by force. Did Horatio not understand? Too many others had likely guessed the truth. Even since the moment they had met, Horatio’s ignorance of what Simpson had done had been his last refuge of dignity. Good god, Archie’s eyes stung to remember the joy of that morning; of at last looking into the eyes of someone who did not know. . . . 

Archie swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Horatio, please . . .” Too late. The words came out almost as a sob. 

Rising to his knees, Horatio drew him close with one arm around his back. Archie let him, falling against his shoulder, sighing as a soft hand stroked over his skin. Strange, that only a few moments ago the warm confinement of that embrace had flung him back into recollections all too real, and yet now, as he relaxed against his friend’s chest, Simpson had never seemed so nonexistent. 

“It’s all right, Archie,” the soft whisper soothed him for a moment, and then he shivered at the unexpected comfort of a kiss pressed to his shoulder. Archie closed his eyes. How volatile the body, one moment ill, the next aflame. His fingers curled into Horatio’s nightshirt to steady himself – a mistake, for his efforts only brought Horatio closer, between his legs. 

Horatio went instantly rigid under his hands, his heart beating perceptively faster at the immodest contact. Already Archie could feel him itching to pull back, his mind working for apologies. Archie shook his head. There was nothing to be sorry for, not when all the loneliness of the past years compounded when they were together in this way, threatening to crush him if he let go. He raised a hand to Horatio’s cheek, seeking his mouth, the surest way he knew to tell him so. 

His poor Horatio nearly jumped, a shudder passing through his body as their lips touched. Archie carefully stroked one warm cheek, attempting to soothe away the fear, for what lay under his hands was so infinitely fragile the wrong impression of a kiss might taint Horatio’s view of passion for good. As Simpson would have. He drew Horatio closer, a surge of protectiveness swelling in his chest. After a moment Horatio’s lips moved with his, shy, puzzled, his body resting lightly against his lap, afraid of hurting him. 

Dizziness made Archie draw back. The air filled with their quickened breathing, fading into a long, strained silence, puzzlement at what they had done. Archie straightened, his heart aching with uncertainly as he looked to Horatio before him, his expression invisible in the faint light, knowing that a hundred exquisite kisses could not put off forever the question he had skipped around. Yet Horatio seemed willing to leave off the topic of Simpson for now, one hand trailing absently down his spine as Archie caught his breath. 

“Archie, you’re cold now,” Horatio observed in a whisper, too innocent to understand that it was his touch causing the shivers along his skin. “Should I . . . do you want me to keep you warm, Archie?” 

Archie froze as Horatio took him by the shoulders, finding himself flat on his back in the next heartbeat, staring up at the outline of Horatio above him. A twinge of fear passed through him at the feeling of being pinned down, and then he caught Horatio’s meaning. Sharp anticipation warmed his blood, only to dull with the memory of his nightmare, and what had caused it. Horatio would brood for years if. . . . 

“No,” he pressed one palm against Horatio’s chest, gently pushing him back. “No,” Archie said again, blinking up in the dark. “Wait, Horatio, there’s something I’d want you to understand first, because I’ve watched you torment yourself over what happened in that boat. I can’t bear it, not when it’s all my fault, and if we were to—“ 

“Archie . . .” Horatio stopped him short, closing one hand around his against the warm cloth of his nightshirt, “you can hardly be blamed.” The words were choked and Archie swallowed hard in response, his throat burning. 

“No, listen to me,” Archie managed at last. “I can’t help but think that if I had made some excuse to Pellew as to why I couldn’t go in that boat then things would have happened differently. My fits were more predictable then I let on, you see? Horatio, I endangered you all and you’ve done nothing but torture yourself over it. If we were to . . . I wouldn’t want you to think, if I couldn’t help being frightened, that you had something to do with that too.” Good god, he was hardly making sense. If there were light, he was sure he would find Horatio staring at him as though he were mad. Certainly he was, but the words kept tumbling. “Even when we were lying here, while I was . . . dreaming, I think I confused you with him.” 

A frozen moment passed before Horatio straightened. Archie felt the weight of his own hands against his middle, a vain attempt to calm the storm inside him while he waited. At last Horatio spoke, his voice quiet and stunned. 

“Simpson . . . Archie, do you mean to suggest that . . .? Oh God.” 

Chilling, to hear it spoken aloud; Archie’s body shook as if to protest the truth of it. Rolling onto his side, he shut his eyes in the silence that followed, dearly wishing to be struck dead before Horatio made sense of it all. 

Now that Horatio looked back, as Archie knew he would, he would of course see so many signs. The fits, the nightmares, the utter terror Archie had never been able to hide in Simpson’s presence. And, of course, the worst moment of all, when Horatio had come below decks after him, stepping between he and Simpson. Archie had been so certain the truth had been plain to Horatio then. To think, he had even been relieved when Horatio’s puzzled concern on deck only a few moments later had proved that impossible. 

“Did he . . . do this, Archie . . . while we served on Justinian together?” 

Archie wet his lips, ready to demand why on earth that mattered, why Horatio would seek to compound his shame by lingering on such details as where and when. His friend’s tone was too grim for argument, however, and so Archie only curled tighter away from him, biting his lip to keep the anger inside. 

“Once,” his stomach turned to admit it. He could feel Horatio’s gaze sharpening, driving into him like nails in the pause that followed. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You were up in the rigging.” Why could Horatio not leave off his questions and throw the blankets over him instead? 

Horatio obliged him with silence at least, and Archie did not move as that silence deepened, only lay there without opening his eyes, sure that after a few moments Horatio would return to his own bed and that in the morning nothing would be the same. 

Something soft fell against his chest, and Archie realized Horatio had offered his nightshirt back. He held it against him, too queasy still to sit up and put it on, yet content that the thing covered him a little at least. 

The quiet rush of a sigh told Archie that Horatio had not moved after all. Archie cracked an eye open just enough to find his friend still at the foot of his bed, pale face turned toward him in the moonlight, resigned to another of his vigils. Archie grimaced, his cheeks heating that he had once again abused his friend’s patience, and by turning away had given the impression that he wanted him to go. Sighing, Archie rolled onto his back 

Horatio seemed to take this as an invitation to talk, grim still but far from disdainful. “And that is why you refused to go back?” He paused long enough for Archie to nod. “Had I told you straightaway that he was dead, you might not have –. Forgive me, Archie, if I let you think I would take you back to the _Indie_ to endure that again.” _Good God, does he look for ways to torment himself?_ Horatio leaned closer, his free hand twisted awkwardly as he spoke. “But, Archie, I cannot imagine that a man would . . .” 

Anger flared up in him. “We weren’t lovers, Horatio, if that’s what you thing.” Archie regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Anger would not retrieve his lost honor nor would it make Horatio understanding the terror of being trapped with nothing to hope for but that the bastard brought himself off by accident unbuttoning his own breeches? 

Pushing the rumpled folds of his nightshirt aside, Archie rose to his feet, stepping around the bed until he stood behind Horatio. 

“It happened so fast -- the first time, that is -- for the longest time I wasn’t certain it had happened at all. I went to find a place to read away from Hether’s snoring. Simpson came up behind me, like this,” he clapped a hand over Horatio’s mouth, his free arm locking around his middle. “He dragged me off someplace dark and he . . . he beat me. It hurt so badly that after awhile I didn’t know what he was doing to me anymore – a blessing in disguise, I suppose, considering. It wasn’t until I awoke the next morning that I knew – blood, you understand? I knew if I breathed a word they’d as soon hang us both. I wasn’t going to the noose for him, Horatio.” 

Archie stopped, taking his arms from his friend. He stood shaken for a moment, before summoning the courage to glance down at Horatio. His friend had turned away from him, no doubt repulsed by the vulgar details. Archie swallowed. He had never intended to take his explanation this far. 

“Forgive me. I should not have . . . elaborated on the particulars.” He moved away, sinking into the bed again, burying his face in the blue wool of his coat. 

“Archie . . .” the gravity had gone from Horatio’s voice; his friend spoke softly now. “Please, for your own sake, say what you will.” 

Emotion swelled inside Archie’s chest. Most men would find the topic filthy and unacceptable, but he supposed expecting that scorn from Horatio would be absurd. Their friendship had stepped well past the boundaries of propriety and mannish reserve; they were almost lovers after all, and if he had not disgusted Horatio yet Archie doubted he ever could. 

“I used to wonder why he chose me,” he went on, “if I wasn’t somehow being punished for my wantonness as my nanny said I would be. I knew I should have tempered myself, should have kept to the girls at the theatre at least, but somehow it was more appealing, lying with Hamlet or Caesar, and I couldn’t help it, you understand? To Simpson it was like a sickness; he said he sensed the sodomite in me. Deep down, the bastard honestly believed I desired it in any way I could have it. Do you see, Horatio? The worst is that there were moments when I started to believe him.” 

“No, I don’t see, Archie,” his answered sharply. “How could you even think it, even for a moment? You could not possibly bear the blame for any of this. Reason it out, Archie. The bastard was hardly one to deal out judgments. Even so, he must have seen it in me too. I . . . I watched you more than was . . . wise.” Horatio ducked his head as if it hurt him to say it. 

“Horatio . . .?” It was Archie’s turn to falter, sitting up in surprise. 

“Archie . . .” the bed shifted, and in the next moment Horatio was before him, his knees bumping on the ground as he knelt down. “Archie, the other night I believe you taught me something of desire. I hardly recall pain or terror being a part of it.” Not entirely true, Archie wanted to contest; Horatio had trembled under his every touch, but he forgot that when one arm slid loosely around him. “Tell me, Archie, with Simpson, did it feel anything like this?” 

A light kiss seared the edge of his shoulder. Archie exhaled sharply, a shiver bolting down his spine, but the assault did not end there. Horatio’s mouth moved gently toward his throat, awkward but hot, flooding Archie’s body with warmth from top to toe. God, he never dreamed his skittish Horatio would dare be so bold. 

“Or this,” Horatio nuzzled under his ear. Archie wondered vaguely at this strange onset of gallantry, but stopped caring when Horatio found his mouth, caressing his lips with a kiss until he let out a soft, muffled moan. 

“God, no,” he panted when Horatio pulled back, the world spinning. Horatio only laughed, a low quiet sound, before sliding his mouth a little lower, kissing his way down one side of Archie’s neck. 

Dropping his head back, Archie cradled Horatio’s head in both hands, his chest heaving as Horatio’s mouth moved there. A hot tongue found a nipple, circling curiously until Archie shook, his fingers winding in Horatio’s hair. Horatio had both arms around him now, one hand supporting his back while the other crept down, feather light and careful, exploring the curves of his backside. 

Archie went cold, wanting to tell Horatio that he did not care to be touched there, but Horatio sensed as much and took his hand away, tracing his hip instead, gliding slowly down his thigh, all the way to the knee, and then sliding up again, creeping cautiously between his legs, igniting little fires under his skin. 

When Horatio stopped, Archie wet his dry lips. “I think you’ve proven your point, Mr. Hornblower.” He tried to laugh, but only a choked sound came out. 

“My point was only the half of it, Mr. Kennedy,” Horatio muttered against his chest, warm breath fanning over his belly, the sensation ticklish and exciting. “I would consider it an honor to please you.” 

The anticipation brought on by these words nearly had Archie undulating. He closed his eyes, whimpering softly as Horatio’s fingers crept over his hard flesh, careful but curious, wrapping around him. Strange, to find himself trembling with what he wanted to happen when his body should not even remember desire after three years of humiliation, illness and pain. Horatio’s hand stilled, and Archie realized he was waiting, unsure. His hands tightened in Horatio’s hair, gently pushing his head toward his lap. 

“Horatio . . .” Archie had a dim thought of stopping him; Horatio had never done this before after all. Too late; he wanted it, throwing his head back with a low moan as Horatio took him in his mouth. 

It did not matter how clumsily Horatio fit his lips around him, or that in truth Horatio did very little. It was simply too much to have another body to cling to, to have Horatio’s soft curls tickling his stomach as he rocked against the warmth of his mouth. He was not even certain that what drove him on could even be called pleasure, only an urgency to rediscover all that Simpson’s brutality had distanced, like breaking free of a cage. It had been so long; Archie’s mind could hardly register the shock to his senses as that urgency mounted, his eyes squeezing shut, hips lifting from the bed as his body finally remembered what to do with itself. 

For a long time, his body hummed in aftershock, his limbs still faintly quivering, but somehow his fingers slipped from those rich dark curls and he collapsed onto the bed, out of breath, exhausted, and sore between his legs. 

“Archie?” the quiet, ever worrying voice that had called him out of fits and nightmares brought him back to awareness once again. He opened his eyes, realizing that he was cold and that Horatio was farther away than he wished him to be. Edging toward the wall, Archie lifted his face to his friend in the scant moonlight, patting the empty space in invitation for Horatio to lie down beside him. 

Horatio accepted, draping an arm behind his shoulders, fingers working through his tousled, sweat-dampened hair. Archie settled against his shoulder, smiling as those fingers, cool by contrast, trailed down over his flushed cheek. 

“Good?” Horatio muttered softly. Archie blinked, catching the meaning. He smiled, not underestimating what it had cost his prim Horatio to ask such a question. His tired, abused body was hardly a judge of such things anymore, but he nodded; it had indeed been wonderful, from a lover so caring. 

Seeking some better way to reassure him, Archie slid his arms around Horatio’s shoulders, smiling when Horatio rolled to face him, cradling his head with one arm, his body with the other. Archie closed his eyes, liking this contact much better; it was calmer, slower. He leaned close in Horatio’s embrace, pressing their mouths together without any urgency at all. 

He could taste himself on Horatio’s lips. Strange, the idea of Horatio’s mouth around him became more arousing in retrospect than his body had made sense of at the time. Archie groaned, nudging his tongue between Horatio’s lips, suddenly yearning to touch him, eager to please him in turn. 

His hand crept down, slipping under Horatio’s nightshirt, wandering over those long slender thighs. Horatio’s arms tightened, but Archie only laughed at his friend’s easy excitement before indulging himself with Horatio’s mouth again. The call of Horatio’s body was irresistible. Archie draped one bare leg across his friend’s, his pulse climbing with the fire of flesh on flesh. 

“Take this off,” he demanded, seizing a fistful of the rumpled cloth. 

Without needing to be told twice, Horatio sat up. They spent a moment wrestling with the linen before tossing it aside. Warm, bare arms slid around Archie’s waist then, and he eagerly fell into them, straddling Horatio’s lap and sliding both arms around his neck. 

“Archie . . .” A hot cloud of breath stung his shoulder, followed by a choked moan as Archie edged closer, his body melting with Horatio’s. The man was more than ready, hard against his lap, groaning low in his throat when Archie wriggled tentatively against him. 

Horatio had little appreciation for teasing, a fact as true in bed as it had been aboard ship. His hands gripped the back of Archie’s shoulders, pulling them down to the bunk with him on top. Lying breast-to-breast now, Archie instantly stretched up to catch Horatio’s mouth, smothering his gasps and groans at the forbidden excitement of their nakedness. He would have liked to find release this way, without giving or taking, only relishing the intimacy of lying so warm and close. Yet the quickness of Horatio’s breathing suggested he was in need of satisfaction more intense, and Archie longed to give it. 

“’Shall I lie in your lap?’” He quoted against Horatio’s ear. Horatio went still beneath him, gasping sharply as Archie nuzzled one side of his neck. “’My head upon your lap.’” He could help but laugh into Horatio’s skin; he was such fun to torment. 

“Archie . . .” Warm hands cupped his face, putting an end to his teasing. A pause held as Horatio stroked his skin, considering. “I’m hardly one of your characters, Archie, but lie with me.” 

Archie froze, drawing back. For a moment he stared down at Horatio in the darkness, his heart beating fast. He made to say that he could not, that someone as unstable as he had no business taking command of anyone else, not to mention that he would hurt him without something to. . . . 

Well, perhaps not. The sudden thought sent him fumbling with his jacket, remembering the small jar of salve the guards given him for Hunter’s leg, and that he had been tending the man before Horatio had called them out to sea, and of course he had not thought to empty his pockets since. Salve would do for this just as well as anything. 

“Very well, Horatio,” Archie agreed at last, finding the jar and setting it beside him. If Horatio had made up his mind to try this then resisting would be useless. Perhaps rumors of certain activities aboard ship had left him curious; it was natural enough for a young man to be curious about pleasure. Better me than some fool who does not care for him. “I shall endeavor to be very careful.” The words rang with more confidence than he felt, but perhaps he could manage if Horatio allowed him to go slowly. And they could always stop if Horatio did not like it. 

Resolved to that at least, his hand traveled lightly down Horatio’s chest, brushing the nipples and the sloping muscle and soft skin, the flat plain of Horatio’s stomach quivering as he dragged his fingertips across it. Horatio moaned, a quiet tormented sound, and then eagerly spread his thighs to his descending hand, offering himself as easily as he had offered care and comfort. 

“Go on,” the command was low and ragged,”take pleasure from me.” 

Startled, Archie licked his lips. “No, Horatio, it wouldn’t be like that. Not like it was with . . . not if I remember right.” _Damn it, this isn’t a penance._

Shaking his head, Archie dipped his fingers into the jar, deciding it better to let Horatio discover what he meant for himself, and better yet not to promise pleasure he was uncertain he could give. He slicked his own flesh with the salve, and then gently slipped his fingers into Horatio’s warm body, taking small comfort in the fact that whether Horatio enjoyed this or not, the whole awkward mess was likely to be over soon. 

His fingers slipped in further, and all at once Horatio twisted under him, tossing his head to one side, a sharp breath hissing between clenched teeth. “Archie, what are you doing to me . . .?” 

An encouraging response, Archie grinned, but knew it was time to go about it for true. He drew Horatio’s legs up across his lap, and then held his breath, pressing the tip of his cock to the right place. God, Horatio seemed so small, so fragile, straining as he was entered for the first time. Archie gritted his teeth, listening for a sound of protest, pausing once until the muscles around him eased, and then pushing a little more, ready to pause again. Horatio would not be so patient, however, and grabbed him at the waist, pulling him forward. 

Archie caught himself with both palms on the mattress, paralyzed for a moment by the snug heat of Horatio’s body. He sucked in a breath, steadying himself, before letting instinct spur him into motion. It felt so good, so warm, all he could do was bite his lip with the effort not to lose himself and hurt Horatio in the process. 

Warm hands caught his shoulders, drawing him down. Archie sank onto his elbows and found himself entangled in a kiss. His lips ground hard against Horatio’s mouth, hungry to swallow up every sigh and moan as he thrust into him, sweating and frustrated that he could not get inside deep enough. Horatio shifted his legs and let him try, squirming under him all the while. A part of him envied Horatio his pleasure – if it was pleasure – wrestling with the fleeting wish to exchange places with him. 

“Archie . . . “ Horatio’s fingers dug into his shoulders, his body curving up from the bed, tightening around him. Archie threw his head back, half aware of the hot wetness spurting against his belly before his own climax shuddered through him, stronger than the last. 

He found himself draped over Horatio’s body when the tumult subsided, thirsty for air, limbs burning from the frenzy of movement. Archie tried to lift his head in order to see Horatio beneath him, but a strong hand at the back of his neck restrained him. For a long moment, all Archie could hear was the two of them gulping for breath. 

“Archie,” Horatio’s hands were moving over his back a moment later. “Archie, are you all right?” 

With a groggy, inarticulate sound, Archie nodded into Horatio’s chest. Those warm arms released him, and he slumped to one side – he might have rolled onto the floor if not for Horatio’s steadying hand. He wanted to ask if his friend was all right, but his tongue did not seem to be working properly. 

“Sleep, Archie,” Horatio patted the back of his shoulder, leaving him facedown against the bunk. Archie was dazedly aware of the blankets being drawn over him before he closed his eyes. 

** 

The room still lay in darkness when Archie next awoke. His eyes opened slowly, unalarmed even as the scant moonlight revealed the close walls around him. A sense of warmth filled his body, as well as a heaviness in his limbs, and a damnable grogginess that made him wonder how he had managed to wake at all. 

Archie shifted under the blankets, his hopes of slipping back into sleep dashed with the soft gust of breath against his shoulder, coming from the warm, bare body beside him. 

Memory floated back, freezing his blood for a sharp instant. Dear God, he had tumbled Horatio Hornblower into bed. That should have made him laugh, but the fact was that Horatio would be anything but amused once his head cleared. 

Or will he? Archie grimaced, recalling what rare form Horatio had been in tonight, with his caressing and coaxing. And, if he knew Horatio at all, Archie was abruptly certain he had spent the past days working up his nerve to offer recompense, as Horatio might call it, for the other night. Archie blinked, struck by the realization that he had received the singular honor of being seduced by Horatio Hornblower. 

He laughed aloud. Must Horatio even show him up in bed? Well, perhaps Horatio had not quite shown him up; the man had got on his back for him after all, moaning and writhing. Archie chuckled at the memory, but to his chagrin woke Horatio with his laughter. 

“Archie . . .” He rolled onto his back, stifling a yawn as he stretched beneath the blankets. “Sleep well?” 

“Mm,” Archie nodded, and then realized he had been a fool, inventing silly competition while there lurked danger more immediate. It was anything but wise for two men to lie naked in the same bed fast asleep in an enemy prison. He pushed himself up on an elbow. “Horatio, why did you stay here? If one of the guards had –“ 

A hand on his forearm silenced him. “There’s nothing to fear, Archie. They’ve no cause to stand outside our door, and they couldn’t see in besides.” 

Horatio sounded so confident that Archie could only nod. “I suppose you’re right.” His mind turned to still more immediate concerns, and he frowned down at Horatio in the darkness. “You’re all right?” He did not think Horatio’s delicate sensibilities would appreciate him asking more plainly if he had bled, or if there was any pain. 

“Never better.” 

The reply seemed far from forced, but still Archie stared at him. “Do . . . do you need water – to wash, I mean – or . . .” He pushed the blankets back to climb out of bed and fetch the pitcher. 

Horatio seized him by the shoulders, holding him down against the mattress. “Archie, it’s all right. I managed for both us after you fell asleep.” 

Archie made a face, but knew better than to insist that Horatio should not have done so and that he was well enough to wash himself. “Thank you,” he muttered faintly, offering a small smile lost to the darkness. 

An awkward moment passed before Horatio took his hands away, as if alarmed. Archie instantly recalled what he had revealed of Jack Simpson earlier, realizing that Horatio had mistaken his embarrassment now for uneasiness at being pinned down. 

Thankfully, Horatio made nothing of it, only settled closer against his shoulder. “Well, Archie, not so terrible for a first night back in prison, eh?” 

Archie nearly scowled at the dryly cheerful tone, and then realized this was no gallant attempt to put a roseate mask over their troubles, but that Horatio was at ease now, even happy; Archie could not recall whether he had ever seen Horatio truly happy before. 

“I _have_ endured worse,” Archie conceded, a smile echoing through his words. 

Horatio made a low sound at that, and then sighed. “I never expected you would want to return here. I’m . . . honored by your choice, but . . . Archie, why?” 

There it was again, the confusion and remorse. Archie could not help but chuckle, though his amusement was directed more at himself than his friend. ”Oh, Horatio,” he shook his head, “the Don’s pit has not driven me half so mad as you have.” 

Horatio’s eyes locked with his, though Archie could scarcely see that deep brown gaze in the meager light, only feel its intensity tugging at something inside his chest. “Archie,” a warm hand took his beneath the blanket. “You’ve been ill for too long. We must take care of you.” 

The strained note in Horatio’s voice professed he spoke of more than that last silly attempt to escape his woes through starvation. Archie frowned, supposing Horatio placed Simpson as the foremost of those ills, and perhaps rightly so. Yet he did not wish to speak of Simpson anymore tonight. 

“I’m feeling much better, thank you, Horatio.” He gave his friend’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. 

Releasing his hand, Horatio recovered himself. “Once the war is over I shall endeavor to find you a decent supper in Portsmouth, and whatever else you’d like.” 

The last words came softly. Archie closed his eyes, dreaming up a large room, a proper fire and a sufficiently comfortable bed, and then wondered if Horatio would permit such iniquity as he could conjure once they were back home, but his drowsy mind refused to speculate on the future now just as it had this afternoon. 

“Whatever else I’d like?” Archie let a sleepy smile twist his mouth instead. 

“Indeed.” 

He could sense Horatio growing nervous as expectation loomed uncertainly between them, but before he could do anything about it Horatio had one hand along his jaw, turning his face. Their lips found each other’s easily in the dark, sealing warmly together, languidly tasting. Archie wound his fingers through Horatio’s thick curls, pulling him down on top of him. Horatio’s lips moved against his more insistently, muffling a whimper as their bodies pressed together. 

“Does everyone kiss like you, Archie?” Horatio wondered when he pulled back. 

Archie had to laugh, uncertain whether Horatio was in earnest or not, too kind to point out that it was Horatio kissing him, and passionately at that. “More or less, I’d imagine.” 

“Hm,” Horatio said no more, only let his mouth slide down. Archie tipped his head back, a slow, dreamlike warmth spreading through his body as those warm lips explored his neck and throat. 

His hands moved to Horatio’s back, caressing the smooth skin in wide strokes, dragging his nails down Horatio’s spine, drawing shivers. Horatio shifted, starting one hand down his body to tease in return, toying with the hairs on his chest before skipping lower, cupping the soft flesh between his legs, stretching up to reclaim his mouth as he did so. 

Archie twisted under the combined attention, hardening against Horatio’s curious fingers. Horatio was equally hard against his thigh, and, no doubt embarrassed by this, he broke their kiss and cleared his throat. 

“It will be light soon.” He sounded so bashful that Archie kissed his cheek to soothe him. But he nodded, seeing the decision left to him. His choice, nothing forced on him, nothing demanded. 

His body still ached after their adventure in the rowboat, and the cloud of sleep still hung over his mind. Archie frowned, knowing he did not possess any more strength tonight to do much in the way of giving pleasure, and he did want to give pleasure. 

“That’s two nights you’ve exhausted me, Horatio.” he wrapped one arm around his friend’s waist, pulling him closer onto his body. Such heat, and a pox on his pragmatic mind for already deciding the easiest way to go about this. “I believe it’s your turn.” His hand slid under his jacket, finding the jar they had used earlier. 

Horatio did not take it, only tensed in his arms, shaking his head. “It may have escaped your notice, Archie, but I have been trying not to remind you of –” 

The sudden sharpness of Horatio’s voice broke whatever spell had come over them. Archie slammed his fingers against Horatio’s lips before he could utter that name. “He doesn’t own me, Horatio. I . . .” 

He could not finish. His cheeks burned with the whole humiliating business of lying on his back like some catamite, _asking_ for it when, after Jack Simpson, any proper man would have seethed at the idea. Yet he was not a proper man, because he only wanted Horatio to love him freely, and because, after Jack Simpson, he did not know what to do with a man who respected him too much to take that liberty. 

“Forgive me, Archie,” the soft apology made him blink, stealing him from those thoughts. “It felt so good when you did it. If you still would like . . .” 

“Yes.” It was easier than saying no and enduring Horatio’s fussing and pity. Archie ran his tongue over his lips, well aware that his arousal had ebbed somewhat. That did not matter; he deserved any pain that came his way for attempting something he was not ready for, and for bringing Horatio into it. 

He nearly fell to pieces when Horatio bent, kissing across one shoulder and then down, taking a nipple in his mouth. Archie rolled his head to one side, shivering with the sharp sensation bolting through him. He whimpered when Horatio ducked beneath the blankets, between his legs. For a moment Archie lay there, chest heaving in anticipation, and then yelped when Horatio’s lips scorched his tender flesh. 

The intimate caress lasted only a moment, yet it ignited every nerve, transforming nervousness into fire. Horatio was a quick learner. Archie could not help but grin at that as he pulled Horatio back up, striving for some valor of his own in this curious moment of truth. 

“Come on, Mr. Hornblower,” he threw his head back, “have your wicked way with me.” 

Before his courage failed, Archie found the jar and shoved it into Horatio’s hand once again. This time, Horatio took it, fiddling with the lid and then stretching out against his body, not quite on top of him, but with enough room for his hand to roam; Archie reached for a kiss that became one of many as those fingers tripped down. He thought Horatio’s hand trembled, or perhaps he trembled, Archie could not tell, only held his breath as his legs parted, and then nearly jumped when Horatio’s fingers found the proper place. 

A warm tingling echoed Horatio’s touch – no more than a light pressure against him, and then inside of him. Archie closed his mind to any sensation that followed once Horatio took his hand away, absorbed in the warm kisses offered for diversion. A few moments of fumbling, and then hot, hard flesh, burning pain – not unbearable, yet enough to leave him shaking, sucking in a breath. Horatio caught the sound and went still. 

“Archie, forgive me, I . . .” 

That endearing voice was far too unsteady, thick with embarrassment and fear. Archie shook his head, pushing his hips up with a sudden wish to finish this, before it could hurt anymore, before Simpson’s ghost caught up with him. That wish faded as the pain dulled, and he was all right, aware of Horatio crouching over him, of the rapid puffs of breath stinging his neck. 

Too frightened to move, Archie clutched Horatio in his arms, whose heart raced against his chest as if overwhelmed by the pleasure, breathing in hard shallow gasps. Yet Horatio hardly moved either beyond the barest rocking of his hips; his body was rigid, straining for control, to keep from hurting him. Archie sought Horatio’s lips, his arms tightening. As long as Horatio kissed him this was not so bad; he did like the idea of being one, and the heat, coupled with the undemanding ardor of Horatio’s tongue inside his mouth. His lower body arched, wanting to be closer, swallowing Horatio’s near growl as their hips touched, igniting something between them. 

All at once, Archie’s body was awash with sensation. “Horatio?” he rasped in confusion, and then remembered what he had longed to show Horatio earlier. Pleasure. He wrapped his legs around Horatio’s back, hungry to let that pleasure burn as intensely as it might, the very thing he had refused to feel with. . . . 

Archie squeezed his eyes shut, closing off all thought. He was only aware of the bed creaking beneath them and his own low constant moaning. He shook, his mind swallowed up by white light, Heaven opening up to him. 

Then everything ceased. The brightness behind his eyes dimmed; Archie felt his lids dropping, his vision tunneled black around the edges, darker than the room itself. Some shred of clarity told him it was no fit nor any returning memory; his body had been flung into the throes of release, and – exhausted, satisfied – he was merely falling asleep. 

** 

The glaring springtime sun poured in too warmly for Archie to sleep very late. He threw the blankets off even before he opened his eyes, vowing that not even a bellow from the Captain would get him into his wool coat today. That thought made him glance down himself, realizing that he was naked and that his limbs were sore when he tried to stretch them. 

Glancing across the room, he caught sight of Horatio in his own bunk, fast asleep with the blankets drawn up to his chin. Archie could not help but smile at the look of peace upon his friend’s face – hardly the countenance one would expect of a prisoner, but all the more winsome for that. 

_The look of a satisfied lover,_ Archie grinned, and then wondered if Horatio would protest being thought of as his lover. In any case, he would have to wake Horatio soon; even in prison they still had their duty, and he doubted Horatio would be pleased if he let him sleep into the afternoon without showing his face to his men. An officer had an example to set. 

Yet Archie had not the heart to disturb Horatio just yet. Even aboard Justinian, the man had rarely slept the night through. Instead, Archie trudged over to wash bucket, cleaning himself as thoroughly as he could before donning all but his jacket and neckpiece. 

When he was finished, he turned back to his friend. If Horatio slept any longer he would only spend the day with a headache. “Horatio,” Archie shook him gently. “Horatio, wake up. They’ll come with breakfast any moment.” 

One brown eye opened at the mention of breakfast, and then the other. Horatio did love his meals, though who knew where it all went. Archie supposed he was hungry too, now that he thought on it. Perhaps the Don would be in a fawning mood and send them something more palatable than porridge. A futile wish, most likely. 

Rolling onto his back, Horatio’s hand shot up to shade his eyes from the brightness of the room, his forehead creasing in pain. Then he blinked, a strange light appearing in those velvet brown eyes, as if he gazed upon something otherworldly. 

“Archie . . .” affection rang through the drowsiness. Church bells echoed outside as they regarded one another. Odd, Archie did recall hearing them before. Of course, he had not made much effort to note anything beyond his own misery. 

“It’s Sunday, Horatio,” Archie remembered that at least, turning to look out of the window. “All the villagers have gone to Mass.” He wondered briefly if Horatio had ever attended a Romish Mass – he had himself once, when a cousin had married an Irishman. Guilt, sin, blame, Archie dared not suggest all that foolishness would suit Horatio rather well. He shook off the strange thought. “We aren’t trapped in here either, Horatio. We could go for a walk.” 

His only answer was a heavy grunt as Horatio hoisted himself out of bed. He made quick work of washing and dressing, and then came to stand behind him at the window. 

“With your hair like that?” Horatio ruffled the top of his head. 

Damning the room for its lack of mirrors, Archie reached up, as best he could anyway – his arms still stiff from clutching the side of that rowboat – making a face when his fingers tangled in unruly blond locks. “Horatio, would you . . .?” 

“Of course.” Generous as ever, Horatio unfastened the ribbon from his hair and then produced a comb from inside his jacket, stepping over to dip it in the water. Archie kept still as Horatio untangled the fine strands, doing his best not to smile too widely at the way Horatio’s hands lingered as he drawing his hair into its proper tail again. 

“Well, Horatio,” he said after a moment, gazing out above the courtyard where the cliffs met sky. “How far do you think we’ll make it in the village before we collapse?” 

Horatio’s hands lowered; Archie could feel him considering the question, those dark eyes staring out above his head. “After last night, I doubt –” 

He stopped, catching himself, and Archie turned to face him. He would not miss the vibrant blush searing Horatio’s cheeks for the world. They shared a smile, uncertain but warm, until Horatio could not bear it, ducking his head and looking fit to die. Archie continued to smile at himself, and then decided to rescue his friend before Horatio was lost to scandalized embarrassment. 

“God only knows what you get up to while I’m fast sleep, Horatio,” he shook his head with mock disdain, “but for now, I’d like to visit these places where you’ve been wooing the Duchess.” 

That brought Horatio’s head up. “Archie . . . “ He narrowed his eyes with a warning, and then seemed to see that it was easier to play along. “I would be honored if you would accompany me on my walk, Mr. Kennedy. I’m certain I’ve much to learn from you in the . . . gentlemanly art of conversation and debate.” 

There was that blush again, and Archie could not resist deepening it with one tiny jibe. “Your conversation left me breathless last night, Mr. Hornblower.” 

Archie stepped a little closer, but after hearing footsteps outside did not dare to touch the man only inches from his reach. They only stared at one another, impatience rising between them, as they stood on their feet, waiting for their meal and to see to their men so they might walk in the sunlight for a few hours together.


End file.
